Pages From the Past
The pages crease and cry when I turn them
and read the words written there, and
I wonder of the person who wrote them
as I admire the fancy scroll within
the faded blue ink of the fountain pen.
There is no binding,
no staples,
nothing to hold the sheets together,
for this is only a draft,
a yellowed pile of memories
gathering dust,
moaning and crinkling
before they fragment
and disappear back into the past.
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