In crowded rooms where shadows cling, To every item, broken thing, A restless mind, a hidden ache, In heaps of memories, it wakes.
An old worn shoe, a crumpled sheet, The remnants piled up at my feet, Yet each one holds a thread of worth, A tangled link to love, or hurt.
The papers tower, ceiling high, Each scrap a tale I can’t deny, A quilt of past, in fractured store, And still I find there’s room for more.
I guard them close, each faded piece, For fear that losing them might cease To mark the life I’ve woven tight, Where daylight dares not break its light.
Others see cluttered walls and floors, But I feel portals, secret doors, Into a time that I once knew, When letting go could not undo.
Though rooms grow small, and pathways thin, To rid the relics feels like sin, For every scrap, though ragged, torn, Has earned its place, like ivy worn.
In piles I wander, yet I’m bound, To lost and found, to silence sound. This hollow fortress, paper-thin, The walls cave out, then fold within.
With whispered hope and fear so deep, I guard my cluttered treasures, keep The ghosts at bay, through endless night, In hoarded dreams and frail delight.
