train of thought poetry

Train of Thought Poetry
It grows alone, long winding tendrils winding up the mantel, growing over the door frames. Silently making it's way over the widows, covering them with it's big waxy leaves, diminishing the light. slowly, slowly, the light begins to dim after months and years, and one by one, every patch of light is covered by it's vines. Too soon, the light is nothing but  memory, memory of better times; melting snow, the sun on your face. The memories are beautiful, like a patchwork quilt, each one different from the last.It is beautiful and yet so distant, the quilt is encased in glass. Impossible to touch, to wind your fingers through, to wrap yourself in the memories. You feel like an outsider