It's Still Life

That lantern we inherited
from your mother.

Its wick, still erect.
Waiting to be lit.

But it was the glass chimney
that your elbow struck.

Shattered. Shards
fell about like rain.

Cursed objects, you said,
bound by will and testament,

to keep and treasure,
even when broken.

Photo by Jaakko Kemppainen on Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter