#1957-Gone by
09/12/2022
Hand-written letters,
Are now obsolete.
Yet it’s all I had,
Growing up.
Foreign stamps,
On blue envelopes,
Inside a mailbox,
Close to our house.
Thin, soft pages.
Different color ink.
Uneven lines,
Recounting stories,
Painted by hand.
Now-a-days,
An inbox receives my mail.
No envelop or stamp.
Written in black,
Always on white.
Me, I still enjoy writing,
As in the past.
For in between the lines,
They also carry memories,
From simpler times,
Now gone by.
