Nostalgia

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

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.