Ink stained Memories

In the attic I found it,

An old sketchbook,

its spine a whispered secret

of ink-stained memories and hopeful dreams.

Each page a doorway where time lingers

With dust motes dancing in a silent sunbeam,

tracing the delicate contours of forgotten sketches

that once breathed life into my reverie.

I ran my fingers along creased edges,

feeling the pulse of past memories etched in graphite,

each line a soft murmur of journeys embarked upon.

Adventure captured in a moment of raw creation.

Here in these faded lines,

lies a testament

a chronicle of dreams, fragile yet enduring,

reminding me that beauty is found

in the quiet persistence of aging ink and hope.