These scars left upon me,
Each papercut from a photograph,
Each tear drawn from a fond anecdote,
Or the sting of a familiar song,
They’re biting heirlooms of a time long gone,
A man long dead,
And the wraith who loved him,
As the events of those golden days fade,
As the flower petals moulder,
And tender gifts are consigned to the loft,
I’m left with the immaterial pangs,
The true souvenir of a heartbreak,
Physical knick-knacks have their sway,
But the upset is the real memento.
WorldofHarley 