of loss

Dusty spines, basemented and boxed away, are rediscovered by their owner, And suddenly the memories come like the tides, A flood of pastimes now idealized, The driftwood of childhoods lost to the cruelty of time... 

I long for a time that was never there, As my ear melts into carpet, listening for the tiniest voice, Of my lost little self, of any hope for the present, So that I may rise above this torrential stagnation, And actually believe that the strings of a tin-can telephone still work.

But I cling to these inanimates because often humans are inadequate. And when weathered bones start to crumble, I'll reach for the void of a chicken soup human, But instead end up buried, Drowning in spines.

Life is of loss and let-downs...I guess this is growing up.