Memories

Memories often reiterate in me,
Like a spectre of old times.
The good old times,
Which each and everyone ruminates.
Memories sometimes reiterate,
Inflicting pain in the mind,
For the bygone good times.
People now are too busy,
Engrossed in their world,
But I have time in plenty with me.
Memories often reiterate in me,
Like a spectre of old times.
In the hustle and bustle of today's world,
The lost fauna and flora of happiness.
People find happiness peeping into their little cuboid.
Today, its the toy of a small kid.
The little cuboid is an addiction,
Making people often forget the memories.
And they become engaged in their world,
Not caring about what is going around,
Making them utmost selfish.
Memories often reiterate in me,
Like a spectre of old times.