A Brittle Box

a poem

I will see you in the box,

your spirit crowned by cold nails,

and locked within, no escape.

Your silence is won and eternal.


The brittle posture of your repose,

and son so often disquiets,

silent mourning by your dying.

I will see you in the box.


An invitation found by chance,

in your company coolly sought,

your remnant steel and cold repose,

a final word to utter unheard.


And drifting ever deep still,

mother and father are speechless.

Recoiling from their son,

they turn deeper into their box.


The box is grown – each plank hewn,

fresh and mounted firmly by each nail named,

each a day of silent rejection split,

of their son, crippled.


I will see you in the box,

as I unhinge the wood planks,

climbing out and gazing back,

to witness your loveless affections.


Oh, mother and father, bereft of breath,

your box is unequal, but no,

substitution for your son – a mean exchange,

this box, its nails dulled by deeds.


I will see you in the box,

and there will be no words.

Though love I offered,

a cold and empty box you returned.


I will see you in the brittle box.

The End

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