Old is gold 🪙.

In a long time ago, stories unfurl,

Of fortunes tracked down in long stretches of gold.

However years cruise by, they actually hold,

Recollections appreciated, never sold.

Grandmother's blanket, with join fine,

Each string recounts to a story, divine.

Her chuckling reverberations, similar to new wine,

In recollections, her adoration sparkles.

A corroded bicycle, with handlebars wide,

Conveys recollections of a cheerful ride.

In dusty storage rooms, it dwells,

A remnant of days, with satisfaction.

Old photos in sepia tone,

Catching minutes, presently a distant memory.

Grins frozen, hearts sparkled,

In the collection, they live on.

However time might blur, and stories told,

In treasures old, the heart holds.

For in the adage, we're told,

Old is gold, everlastingly striking.