The box

Dust in a box, uninteresting save
its progenitor; in truth, a mere
pacifier for those grieved souls

Redwood blonde, lined by age, once
a titan of might, now molded into
an honorable death, at Its behest

Lifeless plaques, shiny tchotchkes
of distraction, adornments scarred
by dates past and words empty;

Human constructs, ill-befitting records
and sentiments, impossible attempts
to define worth and pure happiness

Descriptions of the nondescript, a
paling comparison, an appalling emb-
arrassment, inadequate and iniquitous

A wooden coffer subduing a life any-
thing but wooden; ash of a bridge to
goodness burned, of inimitable affection,

of contagious élan, and forevermore
unattainable humanity, an uninteresting,
eternized box of dust; priceless

art: Sorrow Floats by Susan Hutchinson

9 thoughts on “The box

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