Dial Tone Remnants

An old rotary phone, dust thick on its frame,

held memories hidden, a child's favorite game.

The dial stiff and heavy, whispers from the past,

each number a journey, too fragile to last.

I cradle its weight in my palm once more,

a link to a time when we didn’t ignore.

I remember the thrill of dialing a dream,

a life without screens, where hope could gleam.

Now fingertips swipe on glassy displays,

yet something is lost in the digital maze.

The rough texture, a reminder of grace,

a world once embraced, now lost in the chase.