A Gathering of Marvels Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

There’s a ceramic owl perched on the shelf,

its glaze chipped like a secret it holds.

A postcard from nowhere leans against it,

the words on the back smeared with time.

The brass compass stopped pointing years ago,

but its weight still feels like direction.

A tarnished locket whispers from the drawer,

the clasp reluctant, like closing an old wound.

A paper crane sits light as a breath,

folded by hands I used to know.

The vinyl record spins silence in circles,

a reminder that music is memory, too.

Each corner, a shrine to happenstance,

each object, a story cut loose.

Some tell of bargain bins and summer highways,

others murmur softly in forgotten tongues.

This apartment is more than four walls;

it’s a museum of lost and found.

Every selcouth relic humming, buzzing—

a chorus of what it means to belong.

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