Box
Box (by robert) He wrote of monsters from the deep Of Christmas children half-asleep Of azure skies and rolling tides Of mended hearts and broken brides He crafted every fervent word Recorded every sound he heard Pen and paper, filled with lines Captured all his best designs But never were his works complete Perfecting stanzas on repeat He stuffed his writing in a box Adorned with grey cobwebs and locks Toiling hard for seventy years He never shared them with his peers Instead, they rotted in his crate Surviving past his headstone date Years later, his son would find The tales and stories left behind He hunted down the rusted key Pulled it wide — and set them free All the paupers, all the kings Soared away on spectral wings Published poems spread like flames Posthumously gaining fame The son still kept the antique box But gone were all the webs and locks He’d see it empty ‘till he died For poetry was meant to fly