Souvenirs

Meander without leaving a trail
Like how you cry without a wail
They come, they go, the beacons
Of this silently burdened quarters
Like how you shall when you seek,
When you are sought,
When you are found;
The tourists who wander and
The streetlamps at every dusk
They are the only things that pass
But still remains the same.

So, come and be sought,
So, come and seek,
And pick up the little souvenirs
Of the best pilfered time
But never leave one
Not even the memory
Of your taillights' waning.

It had been too good
To remain the same
Perhaps heaven lies within
The tranquility of beckoning
So tonight I shall wager
For the heaven in these souvenirs.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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