A box filled with remnants all dusty and worn

A box filled with remnants, all dusty and worn,

like forgotten echoes of laughter at dawn.

There’s a yellowed ribbon, frayed at the end,

a shoelace, a toy, a half-broken friend.

Mothballs linger, a scent I can trace,

through afternoons captured in a dusty embrace.

The faded photos, they whisper and sigh,

fragile reminders of the days slipping by.

Why keep these fragments that seem so absurd?

Each object a language without any words.

Yet here they remain, woven tight in my mind,

like threads of a tapestry I can’t seem to find.