Reading antiques between lines of dust
You’d breathe in that nostalgia
Remembering that imagination
And everyone who told you
That you’d be able to live in clouds of rust
As they sold to you
All that memorabilia
Years in marked books, strewn with worthless graffiti
Colors in glass frames, bursting with composed feelings
That you valued so much
But looking at the moss
Overgrown and growing on you
Those feelings you had such fuss
Are no more home
Than the mold on your heart
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