Every now and then I let myself go through old photos and poems,

It feels like going through your childhood toy box,

Slowly and gently sifting through each dusty old friend,
Remembering the joy they brought you,
Way back when,

And once im satisfied,
I pick each one back up,
Safely stowed in the dusty old toy chest,
Close it up tight
Run my fingers accross the lid,
And  slide it back into my closet.

Knowing full well,

my hands and face are soft wax,

I still wake up every day,

And pray to the sun,

Hoping one of these times,

It will spare a few drops,