Missing Moppet

Hanging from the jilted shelf,
The pots and pans they do not shine,
All dusty grey and greenish mould;
The crickets’ noise is bouncing off
Their beaten metal with a twang,
The cacophony building up
With hisses from the hated lips,
Explodes in a thousand lights,
Splintered wood and bulging eyes.

The timid murmurs they are gone.
In the air they left behind:
A fetor of forbidden fumes,
An absent mark of ancient times,
Stabbing at his sickened soul,
The missing moppet Merope.


Notes: This was written for the Iain Sharp Challenge at Poetry Anyone (?), where we had to write mostly with metaphors.