Smells like old stuff in here
Like sweaty socks
And gunpowder
Eighty-three years old
All original
Well, mostly
They laugh at our jokes,
These tour-goers,
And don't seem to mind our mistakes
Or how we have to keep checking our notes
For figures and dates
And a hundred different names
So many faces
So many stories in these halls
You can't buy houses like this
With their history already kept
In pen and ink
On yellowed paper
Hard to think they lived here once
That it wasn't always a place for tourists
Snapping pictures
Making their own history
4 comments:
I love your writing. Yet as in all poetry, I'm lost to deeper meanings.
Haha, no deeper meanings here. I gave a tour of our 83 year old Villa with two of my co-workers. It was fun, and a beautiful experience. I just felt the only way to express it was in really, really poorly written poetry... ;)
Sweet! I sounds like it was awesome!
Um--I mean it.
I likes words.
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