We scrutinize mere objects:
Their consistency in formlessness,
Rasped of any luster, any hue
Does not move, it just exists.
Nonetheless, they possess
A hierarchy more textured than a watermark.
For the kept, not the discarded,
Reign the lost, but are misunderstood.
What are they worth to you?
They have no fame, no splendor.
They lack the detail we need
To judge their value by a finger's tip
While our eyes are dim to defects.
The lost and discarded,
Smashed in all probability,
Lie in unknown places.
The kept are cushioned in dust
Which makes them invisibly visible-
And therefore superior.
Throned or pedestaled
On a higher level than even a memory,
They become relics:
Heirlooms of our history
In which time and distance
Simply curl up into a ball
That shall be thrown against the metal
Of a rust-ridden bell.