Cufflinks adorned with studded beads of onyx
Chained lockets embroidered with intricate metalwork
Tarnished by the oil based perfumes a grandmother wore to her death
Coat wardrobes knicked to perfection where its corners are jaded from the finish,
Not its interior - No, it smells like its wood base and the leaves that it used to grow
Sitting in solitude by the manor hall at the end where the window has blurred from molded condensation
This is more of a home to what used to be, or what was designated for us, than it is what we now hold to be true:
Fiction, magic, true love, justice, and depth.