Antique

What some antiques might say if they could speak.

Antique


I sit in the cellar corner, dusty, cob-webbed, alone.
My youth eludes me like the chase of fox and hunter.

I was a marvel once, upon an age
When I possessed boundless popularity.

Forgotten we are, forsaken by technology, modern,
cold, robotic, wonders
Which in time, will know my plight.

I sit upon the shelf, an age gone by
Of days when all reveled of my creation
When pleasing one was pleasing all
Now One would be grand in itself.

Our usefulness dwindled, unrecognized, foreign
Like a mask on a face, knowing but not knowing.

Eyes befall others now, occasionally our way noticed
But never long enough, to rekindle the spark that once was, the reason for existing.

We are here if needed, if not but for one more revival
Then, satisfied, sit again, till next time not yet written.