lying in the drawer,
Reminds me of mom, winters and
A long lost lover.
Those fresh white textures
Look worn out and grey
And yet there’s so much
They’re waiting to say
I touch them often and keep them back
I hide them at times or shove them in a stack
Yet they find their way and stare at me
With those eyes of Mumma
Or is it He?
Today they’ve managed to crawl
Under my bed
And I’ve promised to listen their stories
Forgotten and Unsaid
No comments:
Post a Comment