The passage of time, nostalgia

The ticking hands, they never pause, Etching lines with inconspicuous claws. A childhood giggle, a transitory glance, Lost inside the waltz of chance.

A rusted swing in a empty park, Sways to echoes long gone dark. Once filled with voices, songs so bright, Now whispers within the phantom of night.

Pages yellow, torn with age, Hold the ink of youth's to begin with stage. Letters penned with trust so wide, Now collapsed where misplaced dreams dwell.

Impressions blur upon the shore, The waves delete what came before. Yet within the sand, for minutes brief, Exists a story of bliss and pain.

A wrinkled hand, a touch so light, A heart that moved in summer's height. Eyes that once saw perpetual June, Now rummage around for stars, for silver moons.

Through dusty upper rooms, time unfolds, In boxes filled with stories retold. A rib boned letter, a shriveled rose, A song that delicately streams.

The reflect talks in noiseless truths, Reflecting echoes of misplaced youth. Yet past and display intertwine, A string of cherish, a soul divine.

For in spite of the fact that the past floats out of sight, Its ashes shine in memory's light. And as the a long time weave delight and pain, The heart still murmurs a youthful abstain.