Sunday Posts

A tune melancholy The foreglow of the Sun, A morning quiet Without the city-burn. A few minutes perhaps Of watching nature's glory, Triumph over the skyline And start the daily story. What is past was once the future And so would this moment be Before the noise steals it, however, Consign it to memory.

Time, for me, is a house to live in Built in air perhaps, A bit crowded too, with all people of the past But one I can't get out of. Time is also my dear old friend, Like a suitcase that travels along, With all photos and moments, and a familiar smell, One I can't ever get rid of. Time feels like a running train I was let in without a pass, I have to get off when it stops But there may still be a long way to go. Then, time is the place I go to, To become a bunch of moments perhaps, And to end up in someone else's suitcase, May be her, who loved me.