It's upsetting.
You see the ones who called for them, the ones who cried for them, and the ones who were willing to die for them cast them away. One by one, the memorable trinkets sold out like they meant nothing. The buyers having no real plan, just tossing them aside. The objects that hold sentimental value to another, the ones that strike our memory and bring up the past. Such as the old bed, that used to lay in her room, strung out, piece by piece. Waiting for someone to decide its worth. For another to take its life and make it their own. Or the old house, that haunts the hill beyond the tree line. Walking through, barely recognizable, the old palace has been stripped. The walls cracked and peeling, but bare and cold. The carpet had lines of a wheel, carting the contents out. The talk of demolition, clenches my heart and squeezed in every way. But most importantly, is the empty spot, the one with indents still in the carpet from the old rocker. I lay barren, but I can still see the bright pink chair, and the little old lady who used to smile, but now she smiles from her cloud above.