the box

a battered elm box with rusted hinges
corners worn from years of use
latches that require a specific touch
deep gouges scar its surface
betrayin the chaos it holds
its weight shifts unpredictably
light enough to balance on fingertips
then breakin shoulders with its burden
an object that breathes in shadows
expandin slightly with every heartbeat
durin quiet hours it whispers in C minor
the same broken chord repeatin til dawn
the lid stubbornly resists
til struck at the upper left edge
a sharp blow that momentarily silences
what stirs inside
they built this prison half a lifetime ago
and none remember now
that what they sealed inside
was once called by my name