Eyes fogged by cataracts of dust and grime
Rusted tears of neglected shame.
Those you’ve sheltered stolen by time
No one left to recall your master’s name.
Those skillful hands that built your shell, now rest beneath the soil.
Yet cursed with an extended life, you’re forced to endure each era alone.
Generations came and went, until the day that final breath came in toil.
The final master was carried away, and hence forth, you’ve been silent as a stone.
They gathered round your flaming hearth, to sing, laugh, and love
Stockings hung on Christmas past, enticing children to behave.
Can you still hear them, ancient one? Into your structure are those memories wove?
What of the one who wore this brace? To its support, was he a slave?
Mark Bierman 