clatter; shelby [day four]

Not searching for truth or
Grieving what has been lost.
Young heart and
Old soul
Undermine value’s cost. I
Recall those calm times
Prior to the lone storm and how
Each moment that lingered was
Reminiscent of home.

and some more prose here

Glaive melting in my hands panic begins to set in as wax dribbles down my palms and wrists. I am left with nothing more than the memory of a shaking hand and a heavy weapon. The lack of weight brings fear to the front of my throat, and I scramble for the golden crayon. The same elongated handle comes into existence, but the blade attaches triangular to the base and lies much heavier in my palm.