Where Time lives on

This mind of ours, never ceases to amaze,
Its alleys as deep, as they are vast.
Deep inside its entwined lanes, stands tall,
The enormous house of memories past.

It’s a fascinating sight, this giant of a house,
A few stories higher each time I stop by.
It’s old floors would soon cave, they said,
Something told me ‘twas but a lie.

Sometimes in the midst of a chilly rain,
I would find shelter in its boundless chambers.
The fireplace, most times, was lit up aglow,
Or at least, it’d offer me the heat of embers.

It was a queer place - no rooms alike,
Some warm and bright, some rotten.
Some, with comfort, were frequented by me,
A few others had been nearly forgotten.

All the rooms lay shut behind closed doors,
An unwieldy bunch of keys hung in the hallway.
Many for the doors in the cellar were now lost,
Locking away paper-planes, and little blobs of clay.

Often mother would discover an olden key,
At times, rummaging a stranger’s bags fetched one.
For hours on end, then, we’d clean every nook,
A tad tiring, but mostly it was a lot of fun.

The key holder hung heavy, looking to yield,
Now and then forcing me to unload a few keys.
When I’d bump into folk who looked like keepers,
I would hand one to them, if they’d so please.

Some would cast it away in their satchels,
Others would slide it into their pocket.
The warmest of them would jog to their house,
Slip it into a door, and gleefully unlock it.

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