In some half-forgotten room,
in a neglected corner of my mind,
Hidden behind locked doors,
I hoard all of us that's left behind.
With intoxication as a guide,
often a way there a find,
to see everything getting engulfed,
slowly by the sands of time.
I sift through all that junk,
Knowing all that's you is unnecessary,
Begin discarding those knick-knacks,
slowed by the cobwebs of memory.
Filling the vacated spaces with loneliness,
I toil away in vain,
Even if I were to find every bit of me,
I'll never be whole again.
