A century-old reel of film unwound,

In darkened light she stands, no sound,

My heart, captured in a thirty-five-mil frame,

This misplaced romance has only time to blame.

 

Tragically, my desire resides in a land mislaid,

When black and white movies were all the rage.

Buster Keaton smashed deftly through every screen

This bobbed-haired goddess, unheard, but seen.

 

Silvered light flickers through progressive stills,

Each one enhances and heightens my thrill,

Her pouting lips utter, but only silence is heard, 

Yet my heart hears her voice, and her every word.

 

In this century-old film, she’s celluloid trapped,

I’m neither lovelorn nor is my ardour sapped,

Her black and white world may be gone, but I stand,

Ready to grasp her manicured, alabaster hand.

 

The camera lights brighten those Kohl blackened eyes,

And in their reflection, I thought, to my surprise

I saw myself standing before her, in time,

She’s forever young, she’s forever mine.

 

This century-old film. What is time to me?

When love colours all, chromatically 

In silence, she casts a dark-eyed, sensual glance,

I recognise that timeless love has a chance.

 

Love echoes down the years, what’s bizarre

I’ve fallen in love with a silent movie star

Through the lens, I see her looking directly at me.

Time may be the lock, but love is the key.