I’m the set of family photographs that stood silently while in the dusky distance, a Kwagga cried and by cozy candlelight, two men plotted coldblooded murder.
I’m the ornament that could but watch as a loaded shotgun shot ear-shattering shots into the hearts of my beloved owners. I’m the picture frame that my maimed mistress gripped with a dying grip as she slowly slipped away. I’m the petite possession a shamed relative shoved into a dust caked casket while at the dim, drizzly docks, Adrien Patis met his end.
I’m the disgraced object who for years saw nothing but a feeble filter of light flickering through a moth bitten hole.
I’ve met callous connivers, seen more blood than a butcher, felt teeth chattering, bone shaking fear and have the bruises and bumps to show for it.
What have you done lately?