My old trumpets and trombone slides
Sit unopened and cured with the dusty attics formaldehyde  aromas.  
My lips dry  up like mummified beef  to their ancient smell of old black bibles and their taped up cardboard tombs.  I find myself unable to break their mossy temple structures where I practiced my classical studies and could feel my whole kingly persona taming auditoriums and thrones of asp faced judges.  But now my structure and stamina ruined and gone like a ginger bread piano.