Locked away high up in the attic,
under a discolored antique desk,
surrounded by cobwebs and dust,
covered by a threadbare blanket,
was my old toy box.
Holding it in my hands,
it felt surreal.
I opened the wooden chest,
that squealed and screeched in protest
trying to protect my childhood fiercely.
I wanted to revisit the past,
to look back on my life
so I continued to wrench and pull
until it sprung open.
But when I saw what was inside,
I immediately regretted it,
for everything was
old and broken,
tattered and frayed,
yellowed and aged.
It was gone. Irreparable. Irrevocable. Irreversible.
Much like time and the way
it stole my childhood.
YOU ARE READING
Gone was time • poetry collection
PoetryYou don't see it. You don't hear it. You don't feel it. Quietly, it creeps away like a sinful thief, stealing all your moments, your months, your memories and gone was time. More often than not, many of us don't fully comprehend the weight a moment...
