A box; a cause of such negativity.
For in all it provokes jealousy - a feeling bringing upon a desire; lust.
But then, is lust bad?
The burning passion which you dare to have.
And towards our box I feel a fear.
Ice cold - freezing the dancers' tears
Which still continue to fall as I look but do not see whether there is perfection within.
What do you see?
Do you have faith in the blindness; in the message our box has become?
Looking upon it, are you mesmerised?
Are you, too, in awe of its ability to stay strong?
I think we miss the cracks.
The rope, we say, holds the box together so beneath the plait
there could be cracks.
I think I see the snow melting,
And the fire is growing, not a burning passion
But now a forest fire.
And the spirits, not dancing,
As the rope stays intertwined;
As the rope forces the box to stay together no matter how much it fights.
But is it worth fighting?
Is this battle already lost?
Should the box be allowed to fall apart - nobody wants to be locked in a tower.
Except perhaps you.
And still, people are jealous of this box; our box.
Because they dare not look too close for fear of lacking perfection.
For fear of finding that within is not what they expect.
They wonder as I do, what is within?
Never, do we dare open our beautiful box of belief.