Old Stories in a Bottle Washed Ashore
Heaps in drawers, unmouldered words,
the produce of ancient typewriters,
memos preserved from a younger self
like films of vintage prize fighters.
They appear as etchings of people once fair
in amber they're caught undisturbed,
but now I cringe at how time has eroded
pleasure once given unperturbed.
They only attract in a time-capsule way
but at least I can say I’ve improved,
and I wonder if what I’ve written today
I’ll look back on likewise unmoved.
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