Melancholy remains of the past

Like the lost pages of an old chapter in my book of memories, the past disappears,
Slowly withering away, with the faded lines and yellowed surface.
Bits of joy strewn upon the lives that lay far apart upon those pages,
Are now blotted like the stray droplets of ink upon the leaves of my book,
And not a moment of idleness walks past me now,
Without a tinge of grief, upon the loss of the past
Even as new stories are being written incessantly.