I've developed this strange habit
Of keeping souvenirs too close.
Be it fragmented seashells,
Or sometimes a wilted rose.
They were given to me by people
With smiling faces, shining eyes.
Who knew it was all a facade and
Their love was laced with lies.
In those glazed envelopes
With their corners a bit torn,
There lies a glorious era
That's long lost and forgone.
I've preserved chunks of glass,
That have aged fine like wine.
Now it only hurts me instead,
This blatant hope of mine.
I wish to hear more from people,
But their voices are too meek.
So I hold onto souvenirs tight,
Just in case they fail to speak.
YOU ARE READING
THE PREMISE OF LOVE
PoetryMy Poetry, the art form of the soul, is an exquisite tapestry of language that weaves together emotions, thoughts, and experiences with skillful craftsmanship. It is a captivating expression of the human spirit, transcending time and culture, to tou...
