I rifle through the contents of the room,
Searching for secret words,
Hidden in gloomed ink
On shreds of yellowed paper;
No, antiquated shrapnel,
Plain scrawling on the side.

Now they seem mythic,
These syllables tightly joined,
Hidden in books and under shoe boxes,
Paperclipped to the pages of my past,
Leave me only these remnants,
Still I will cling steadfast.

The burns, they will last,
Rope slipping in tight hands.
My feeble grasp shan't release,
Feeble hands of a feeble mind,
For love is a fool's errand, (hush!)
Or so at least says the cynic.