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Lost To Time Part of me in dinosaurs and where the show is missing, and the play has no script. That I get to searching in a trash bin, for that never again. Somehow it was meant this article, a piece of media, this portions of something you remember. But you can't find it. As if in a physical form hold, touch, and see otherwise it never existed. Seems strange to think that days, nights, years, lives are not mass produced pressed and factory made. All those loss like a line someone says, or things you keep close. Like what you once hold to, like a fire on a cold day. Vote for this poem
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