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There’s a box, I keep a lid on,
at the centre of my soul.
It’s got several locks, of, division,
to keep it full, and, whole.

It’s not Pandora’s, or, a goalkeeper’s,
it is mine, and, mine, alone.
It once, got porous, and, holier,
so, I rebuilt it, out of stone.

The box, holds all, my pain,
all my sorrow, all my fears.
All the times, I’ve tried in vain,
to only borrow, Grief’s own tears.

The box, is very, weary now.
I must admit, that, I am too.
And the locks, are worn, and, weathered.
Just like, my other soles, and, shoes.

To hide, my box, I wear, a smiling frown.
Inside-out scowls, plastered on, with glue.
So, that nasty thoughts, are severed.
From, skies outside, and, my insides, turning blue.

I would love, to find, the keys, somewhere.
To my box’s locks, so long, unlatched.
But, every time, I find a locksmith, here.
Everything, inside my box, is, snatched.

I hope, to one day, come to peace,
with everything, inside my box.
To, simply, shake the hand, of, dreaded Grief.
And, tell him; he’s not the only one, who’s lost.

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