Sometimes

when nothing seems to stir
there's sound which seems familiar, coming
from a place which the sun never
touches, nor ever will, remembered
from a distant year-
tiny feet shuffling across the floor
trundling his toys. I see the dust of my childhood's years
rise.
What else am I
to do with memory
but hold it?



Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
Written on 2025-11-05 at 06:11

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