Behold these priceless artefacts
The echoes of youth now grown,
Set against the unlikely background
Of a dull and lifeless room.
Its grey and tedious walls
Absorb my blank stares.
But these artefacts stand out
Excavated from the mind of ordinary.
In them the embers of thought
Still burn, the glorious light of creation.
Surreal in their seeming to belong
In a place of such mediocrity.
The hum of idling machines next door
Hungrily awaiting another piece of wood
Is all that keeps this room tethered to earth.
And then back to mundane reality
And the whitewashed board in front.
