To trade a trade of memory,
Silver in a glass,
I think of what I knew to be,
And what I knew to pass.
O
There were days of trial,
Makeshift thrones and steadfast kings,
They would know me, once and awhile,
For you shan't forget the pretty things.
O
But other days, they found me not,
Where I would sit and stare,
In places where the old dreams rot,
And I, forgotten, hadn't gone anywhere.
O
Companions of mine have come and go,
My loyalties unbroken,
Their whispers stray, to and fro,
For I am naught but a token.
O
A token from which the people kept,
Their worthwhile, pretty lives,
And I, the father, stayed and slept,
And pretended it didn't cut worse than knives.
O
To trade a trade of memory,
Silver in a glass,
You must know that you have forgotten me,
Through trials of the past.
AN: Another poem. Yay.
This hurt, physically, to write.
Hope you enjoy!