To tell the story just open the hinge,
an old love upon which we impinge.
This loving riposte to a love lost;
a lock of hair in a golden locket,
a casement with a picture-pocket.
A memento to a red-hot passion
caught in this timeless fashion.
A heartbreak, a loss too painful to share;
feel the hurt, the intensity, the despair.
Locket in the palm of the hand,
close your fingers around it like
a pebble picked up from the sand.
Across forgotten years and old fears
that smiling face from yesteryears.
The warm gold against the heart,
beloved compartment beyond art.
Providing the head water of tears,
a source of comfort down the years.
The story ran dry all the heartbreak spent,
we know too little to either cry or repent.
A love that time cures and yet corrupts;
the purity of the sentiment age disrupts.
Passed down from generation to generation
carrying not the same sense of animation;
more it offers something to the curious,
they see the loss that made you furious.