In the box forgotten dark

In the box, forgotten, dark,

a silver locket. Just a mark

of what was once. No polished gleam,

just dullness, like a waking dream.

A greenish film, a slow disease,

had eaten through, with bitter ease.

The fine etched lines, a lover's name,

consumed by time, a quiet shame.

I rubbed it, but the black stayed put,

like old regrets, a stubborn foot

dug in the mud. My fingers stained,

a trace of what had once contained

a shine. Now, only tired gray.

The beauty just had moved away.