The years of memories that gather dust
in lofts in boxes piled high.
Diaries old and full of secrets
tales of who and when and why
Birthday cards from long ago,
their postal-orders long since spent.
Signatures from distant memories
loving messages well meant.
A battered school bag full of books,
Maths and English, Latin, French.
Furniture now out of vogue,
a long lost chest, forgotten bench.
Should life be measured in layers of dust,
or by the amounts of breath we draw,
or what we do with the breaths we take
or just by the junk we choose to store?
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