There May Be Sadness

At the end, when time is a skinless finger, drawing thin lines in the dust. You may look at all the once acquired, you might recall all the mislaid. There may be sadness, or a mold-tinged nostalgia. Regrets may scamper like roaches, into long hidden cracks and shadows. Straw mice may softly nibble at your heart-bones. Those few long handled treasures, trinkets you thought essential to warm flesh, are already moving on and cannot be followed. The rest is an airless room, brim full of castaways, collections you thought to secretly grow, but nothing rusts forever in a house of wasted time.