Nostalgia

We need a witness for the old lost days,
A hand to hold in soft memory’s gaze.

But when the dear ones leave our circling light,
We build small things to keep their fire bright.

From what we make, we gather shades of gold,
Yet no warm voice remains to hear it told.

And our longing feeds on its own design,
Like old cassettes untethered, line by line.

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Photograph Courtesy: Pexels, Pixabay.