Forgotten

Squeak, squeak, squeak. The sound that resonates in my ears. My existence in orbit around the source of this sound. Every move, in fact, every thought of mine, is associated to this sound. Like a placenta wrapped around a baby's neck, in a mother's womb. Sign of impending horror or remnants of an incident past? Shining stars in the sky fail to beat the glitter on my chest. A chest once proud, now a frail shadow of loss. All that glitters on my chest is far from gold. A hand that once saluted with honour and pride, now outstretched, palm up, waiting for your largesse. You look at me with disdain. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I move on Treasure trove Insignificant metallic honour Wheelchair spares