A dramatic monologue spoken from a locket which has been passed down
|Now it is thy turn to say that I hold
Memories, pictures, thine stories of old
Locked behind thy tarnishing, hoary clasp
Where thou is held safely within my grasp.
Father, the Jeweller, cast thy from silver
With fine chain, ‘round mother’s neck I did sliver.
I passed to her daughter, when death did us part,
Who placed our mother’s face within my heart.
No matter how tight One kept One’s arms closed
I always found One’s owner forever transposed!
From wife of jeweller, to that of a doctor,
My latest being that of a cobbler.
It is strange to have had so many mothers,
Yet still belong to one of her daughters,
So what if they are a different plant or bud
But I know within there’s the same type of blood.