Of threads and pockets

The me with bad memory found this piece in my pile of electronic-trash-work-pile, apparently written in May this year but i have no recollection of it.


It was a rainy morning the day I left the old town.
With a suitcase broken, tattered and wet.
It was held together by my memories, my tears and my regrets.
And on I went on a journey.
The valleys of light
The tops of white
The streets of dark
The caves of black
The roads of gold
The roofs of red
The tops of white
The sea of blue
And in each place I went.
I felt I left me behind.
I was happy.
I came back empty handed.
My suitcase was lost.
So I came back.
But my pockets were full of shreds
I was where I started long ago.
Now no suitcase just my pockets.
And I’ll leave again for a journey till I lose my last thread.