Moldy memories: Rusted Memories

The memories have grown old they whisper through the moth-eaten Russian coats that still breathe the scent of forgotten winters. The walls around me mumble like wild animals and every crack sounds like a year collapsing. Most of my life has been poisoned by remembrance these ancient reels spinning endlessly in my skull, like my father’s rusted gramophone, turning the same wound over and over, like my grandfather’s torn hat still waiting for a head that’s long turned to dust. I live among echoes a museum of fevered ghosts, where every memory is both a cradle and a coffin