"Never trust the shine of brass," whispers the forgotten candlestick,
secretly smothering
the unsaid beneath its flickering glow.

"We roll and we shuffle," confides the antique globe,
"but never steady
is the fragile truth we encompass."

"Worn pages," lament the scattered books,
"expose nothing
of the fallen word woven in dark echoes."

"Ponder the incessant punctuation," sighs the
weathered typewriter
as its ink-drenched keys breathe quiet scars.