The reminiscent glimpses
Of the departed souls.
Ethched into our heart's core.
Footages of camera rolls,
Some that speak of a lore.
We live through memories,
And so does our teachings and essence.
Memories in a book
Of a young girl .
You ask me and I'd say
Its them, that make me-
Me; without them,
I'd be oblivious to my own world.
YOU ARE READING
string of words
PoetryPoems come to me like Words falling from the sky creating an ache in my chest Forcing my hand to write it.
