Chain Weight

In a shoebox full of faded things,

a tangled knot, a dusty grey,

the metal disc, it silently sings

of names and dates, from yesterday.

I traced the letters, almost gone,

a ghost of someone's given name.

Cold to the touch, like early dawn,

it carried sorrow, carried blame.

No rank, no unit, just the space

where memory began to thin.

Cool against my open face,

where someone's life had worn it in.

And I, holding it, felt the trace

of something heavy, passed along.