Memories

Fog

I look through the rubble
The little mountains I have constructed
In a little room called the attic

And here I have little ones, big ones.
Good and mediocre. I have gold and fool’s gold.
Ingots and trinkets.

And they are all handpicked for the occasion.
Equally weighed for the requiem
And the dream.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s