Times long past, or just moments before
All make up the bedrock of our home.
The now is fleeting, the future unsure
Only the past stands still and true.
Memories permeate me,
Because what are humans, if not memories?
What is the world, if not history?
YOU ARE READING
Splashes of ink
PoetrySplashes of ink on an empty page; Only growing darker with age. ======================== Poetry book
