I've been going through
Old poetry, my own, a motley
Collection like a dusty attic piled with
Rumpled rhyme schemes
And littered with brightly hued
Scraps of imagery, left half-stitched;
It's an interesting sort of search,
Going through old notebooks
Become wardrobes stacked with
Threadbare cliches and dusty
Scrapbook impressions of a
Younger soul; hazy reflections trapped
Under the surface of a warped mirror
And it is here that I will find
Tucked between the folds of
Outgrown naivete and melodic revery
Hidden, like pressed flowers,
Still-vibrant emotions; memories;
Surprisingly sweet
