With the remnants of the haunting memories,

Burning softly against the drenched ground,

I indulge in vain discourse.

The words gush forth unassailed;

I raise no hurdle.

The flames can't die in desolation.

Let my futile talk be the ally of its final hours

And its tantrums the wounds of my last battle

Before a faint trail of smoke is all I would see.

The wandering of the little feet seizes at once

As the eyes stumble across the rusted treasure.

Rusted indeed it is to the world,

But to the eyes, it is the gateway

Of eternal mystery, and hence beauty.

A head screw.

The eyes, being held captive by the once silvery charm,

Wonder at what today is a derelict waste,

Resting in a hole drilled by kind termites.

Though once the knight served with might and grace,

Holding firmly what a soul held close,

It now lies at the mercy of the maid,

And in the perpetual fear of breathing its last

Amidst odoriferous trash.

The little hands receive the knight

And hold it close to the heart.

“Don’t be afraid, unsung hero.

I name you Phillip.

You shall be my friend,

And I, yours.”