Found a yellow card the last day,
With black writing, bright and gay.
Forgotten, it lay,
Until I found it there.
Too much it meant then,
And now just even more.
The words now meaningless,
Yet make me feel some more.
I never knew what it meant,
Till now, lays it rent,
By neglect, like the days,
The author spent on it.
To a pocket I relegate,
This last gift,
Hoping not to forget,
This last time we met.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoetrySecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
