Maybe within a brass key.
Or, a handed down skeleton.
Or, a locket.
Or, a gifted rosary.
Sliced Americana dimmed in privacy.
Hoarder’s paradise brimming over with pride.
Feelings covered with rusted remains.
At the sign of the cross succumbed dismay.
And, the behold linger too much…they may go blind
So deep are these commanding cankers…
That over turned chairs and broken screams appear submissive and kind.
Trash shielding the burdened mind.