On those
Brittle
Yellowing pages
Of the brown diary
Discovered in the
Dusty attic,
You come to
Hear the
Faint rustling
Of the faded
Memories
Preserved and pickled
In the sprawling
Lines composed
With a black pen
By a forgotten grandmother
Sometime in the
20th Century that is
Now somewhere buried,
Like the
Gentle fluttering
Of the cute
Yellow butterflies
Caught and kept
In a cruel jar
As the
Winged trophies
For others
To see.
