Timid, he opened the suitcase,
Long left locked from his travel
To Exotic ports and Unusual places,
Where Travail had rewarded him
With sights and sounds and smells
He'd never before experienced,
Until Time, that Transient,
Ordered him home, back to his
Sad, daily routine of work and sleep.
So he opened the suitcase,
Filled with film not yet developed,
Carefully wrapped figurines,
Small pieces of artwork,
Beautifully bound books.
A tomb of memories.
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