There in a corner of the attic opened to air
Stood old battered suitcases with lots of labels
The birds had been there and left their mark
The rusty locks were difficult to open.
Old books with brittle pages
And photo albums filled them
Black and white pictures of strangers
Stared back at me in old fashion clothes.
Whose are they ? I asked
A bankrupt friend who lost everything
Return from prison was his dream
Obviously, those were his most precious memories
Sadly, he passed away, he committed suicide
Even these were not enough.
Lucette C. Bailliet
All rights reserved
NaPoWriMo 2016
TSL, roseate sonnet
No comments:
Post a Comment