What would think if you saw the letters, feathers and train tickets,
If you sifted through my photos, birthday cards or poems?
Pulling through this weave of memories and all that goes with it.
I have kept everything, and I have written even more;
For life has taught me that anyone can just up and leave
We can’t “live in the moment”. One moment could become one life.
Love reduced to a pocketful of photographs and tickets to give
To our loved ones to remember us by, and for them to live beside.
These things are precious to me; our forgotten treasure.
My bitter paper trail that I stumble along, taking me back
To happier places where I can find our old pleasure.
I’m a hoarder of moments, desperate to find gold in paper,
Something that I had missed before, an echoing smile.
I walk in my loving, sweet Danse Macabre,
My fruitless attempt to make “treasure” worthwhile.
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