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!