On my windowsill to the left of my bed,
Sits my magic box right next to Big Ted.
Its hinges are gold and its structure is oak,
And was made with love by fairy folk.
Inside this box are wondrous sights,
From a pot of gold to the northern lights.
Inside my box generations have placed,
Thoughts and dreams from their childhood that vanished with haste.
Sights and sounds of things they found dear,
Forever kept safe and comfortably near.
Questions unanswered have entered my box,
And ever since then have remained in darkness lost.
Such as their child's first smile that warmed their heart,
Or moments so precious they cannot impart.
The first time they were asked "Will you be my friend?"
Or had to watch a friend's broken heart mend.
Memoirs of their childhood that still linger within,
My boxes magical aura that preserves like a tin.
I shall participate in adding my own contribution,
To my boxes magic yet realistic solution.
My thoughts of time gone by and life to come,
Shall be allowed to embrace other lives like a mum.
And when I've grown old with no more adventures to be had,
I shall pass my life's work on to another lass or lad.