My old home, where my heart beat so strong. The jagged black tar on the street; the deep valleys you could only feel with your naked feet, ran passed my old home. Cold on a Sunday, Cold on Tuesday, My old home was drafty. The deep sounds resinate between the walls, echoing my fall. The neverending sounds of thoughts and words expressed, but lost and forgotten. My old home. An echo resounds but never replies. My memories fade, and the street fades. Your look and feel escapes me. I feel your touch, gone, and I watch as the memory of you dissapears; like a ripple in a calm pond. An echo, a shadow. A memory of a dream just dreamt right before you wokeup, but were unable to grasp. My old home.
Posted on: Sun, 08 Sep 2013 08:03:33 +0000
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