Staring at the past through the snow smudged glass,
pure glimpses of youth and times that did not last.
The slanted frame of an old wooden barn
grins sleepily next to a newborn brick mansion.
Amidst all of the din, the racket of change,
I still hear the familiar pulse of home,
the swish of cars upon midnight pavement
and the creak of old stairs,
moss covered it seems,
they lead me to my sanctuary,
still flooded with tiny reminders
that I too was once a child
and it was here in this house,
these fields and this glorified town
that I once ran wild.
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts in the comments below.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”