Spit & Polish

The mouthpiece, cold, from Grandpa's horn,

a muted green, where light was born.

It smells of metal, old and dry,

a taste of spit, before the sigh.

Heavy in hand, a silent weight,

that knew his breath, sealed in its fate.

No song now, just a dull brass sheen,

where tarnished air has always been.

A hollow curve, where music slept,

and promises were never kept.

Just dull decay, and nothing sweet,

against my lip, it feels complete.