solemn helm
I lay locked away on busted floorboards
Rust seeps into crevices, scars from wars
I recall face-offs against the Russians
lazer-beams, space invaders and destruction
i'll paint you a picture of what lies under your bed:
marbles turned into dustballs, cobwebs on the train set
tattered remains of board games amidst butts of cigarettes
clattered collectible cards, love letters from Juliette,
mountains of wooden blocks guard valleys of regret,
and there's one thing, I, the lone tin soldier
as I grow older in my prison, Fyodor,
wish, simply, that I didn't exist
oak dagger
dreamy spruce
cinder lynx