The Traveler

In the old world

full of dust and bones

a traveler short and tired 

wandered into my home.

 

In his bag he carried

books and trinkets that

glistened and sparkled

in my dirty home.

 

Suddenly an urge

much like a boy alone

with his love for the

first time overtook me.

 

I siezed these 

treasures and admired 

how the sparkled in 

this dull light.

 

Yet as I look at them

Now in their faded luster

I see cracked paint

And scratches

 

and an old face

wrinkled much like the 

traveler's

staring into darkness.

Poetry Slam: 

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