In a dark corner of the attic
I opened an old tarnished and black,trunk.
To my amazement it was filled with cool stuff,
Handwritten screenplays ,sonnets and letters,
wrapped in ribbons carefully and placed.
Pictures in grey scale ,static yet stunned.
I felt a connection with time gone by,
how simple things were treasured.
Peacock feathers and roses hidden
in the silent guard of pages
now yellowed and torn.
while I spent some time here
the confession of time.
like a weight in my chest
made me realize how we hold on
to the pieces of the past
while we dream for our future
Really living for the day is living.
outcast the calender pitfalls,
let every toll of bell cast a new dream
who cares when we are gone.
cross the boundless ocean of time ,
gone or to come