In the cluttered corners of my mind,
I dream of being an archaeologist,
sifting through sands of time like a child
digging for treasure in a backyard,
unearthing beads and broken crockery,
each shard a whisper from the past.
Oh, to brush dust from ancient artifacts,
hoping they’ll reveal secrets of serenity,
as if a cracked cup could hold
the swirling storms of existence.
And I stand there, shovel in hand,
trying to organize my life
as a collection of shards.
But what if I find only nutshells?
What if the beads are just remnants of boredom,
the forgotten trinkets of a people who thought
that meaning could be found in their leftovers?
So here I sit, a word-digger with a pen,
digging through the debris of my thoughts —
hoping that somewhere between the lines,
I might uncover an insight or two,
a glimmer of wisdom amidst the wreckage,
and maybe, just maybe, find clarity in chaos.
