The Shrine
Neatly placed with dust collecting,
things of yours for years neglecting.
To be used or moved aside,
the story of which I hide inside.
Your cup right here, no drink to hold,
your clothes of which could not be sold.
Pictures taped from end to end,
remind me of the hours we spent.
No more to laugh...or run...or play,
since the day you went away.
P.R. Deremer
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