The Chest

There it sat in the corner of the room.
Pieces of dusty, brown and rotted wood
Intricately formed into an weather worn box,
A chest from Victoria's reign.
It captivated the minds of all three boys,
The young explorers,
Who,
While their mother was away,
Had braved the cobwebs and rickety stairs
And entered the forbidden attic.
With the ignorance of all small kids,
They explored through the boxes,
Feigning interest in old letters and clothes
And hoping for a remarkable find.

Their hopes were blessed
And they soon found the chest,
Becoming consumed with thoughts of
What lay inside.
Each child,
With stern wonder
Obessing with fantasies about
Gold and swords
Even going so far
As to don eye covers and hooks
And re-enact scenes of
Pirates and Privateers.
They flail around
Doing combat with hangers
Until the youngest yeilds victory
And claims the divine right to
Open their discovery.

He slowly lifts the top,
Shielding his eyes
From the expected glint of valubles.
But as the lid reaches its resting place,
The boy looks inside
To find naught but a piece of torn parchment
As old,
It seemed,
As the chest itself.
And on it,
In a scribbled caligraphy,
Only one word:

"Fool"