Halifax, Nova Scotia
possessing the absense of light
Lower surfaces creaking fraily
as visiting footsteps trod,
The smell of mothballs sear through nasal passages
while the scent of oldness invades the subjective consciousness.
Lending atmosphere to pieces of the past, displayed with care
some trapped under molten, solidified translucence
Perched high atop pedestals,
Proudly preserved in showcases
Each with its own story to tell, of times past.
Oh the tales of yesteryear they could dispell!
Of wars fought,
Of lives lost.
Of morals learned
Of lessons taught.
But instead, they lay silent, in their final resting places,
as treasures of old
Weathered with time,
Rippened with mold,
Their purpose served,
Their days of use, far spent
Unbeknownst to them,
These priceless trinketts, though never to be used again,
Will serve memory's purpose for eternity
as the window of the past is left ajar
In the wonder of the museum