by Christopher Stone

Created on: September 12, 2008

I sink my face and hold it tight, into this piece of cloth

remembering the smells of old, forget the fleeing moth

The smell I take into my mind, brings back memories

of times that passed by so so hard, now seem lost with ease

I feel the cloth soak up my tears, my shoulders slightly fall

a weakened sobbing form I am, no longer strong and tall

You see this cloth I hold so dear, comes from a time long gone

a apron my dear mother wore, before she passed on

From time to time I take this cloth, from her dusty trunk

thats hidden back within my home, an attic full of junk

I set upon my knees and calves, before my tiny shrine

the memories flood without a pause, this structured world of mine

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