What appear to be demonic-like beings sit around a table, in a similar style typically depicted in The Last Supper.

Hold

I was born
From the flame and the heat
You held me in your hands
I held your sustenance
Your secrets
Your tea
Your sugar
Your treasures

I was woven from the tall cedars
That stood above you
Maybe beside you
Our outer parts were stripped away
To become a part of the inner circles of your life
We also held
Your food
Your livelihood
Your riches

We have passed hands
Possession
For many centuries
Serving our masters
The hands of the families that made us
Their histories and stories
The hearts of the ones we hold

But despite our allegiance
We were soon held by others
Who saw us
As commodities
As currency
Trading not to tell stories
But in the pursuit of profit

And so, we sit
Five, ten, hundreds of years later
Eyes on our front
Eyes on our backs
Questioned
Laughed at
Sometimes appreciated
Maybe a sideshow
We hold your attention
Not your tea
Not your food
We sit empty
Life is on the other side

For we once held what belonged to you
We once held hopes and dreams
We once preserved, persevered — among the elements
We once sat at your table, listening to your stories, your laughter, your tears

Now, they hold us
They watch us
They hope we don’t decay
That these ones will learn
They didn’t forge us
They didn’t weave us
They didn’t sculpt us
They didn’t use us
But they will judge us
From behind the glass
That holds us

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