sometimes a box
is just a box
i suppose
with five sides and a lid
for shutting stuff in
like a bundle of letters
yellowed with age
perfect for reading
on cold rainy days
or a book full of quotes
dog-eared at the pages
which resonate most
depending on which
of your moods is in play
like some rusted
pendulum.
it’s a funny
thing about pandora’s box
this proverbial “place”
and all that it means
from pithos to pathos
and those spaces between
like an echo chamber
of soul
for what we believe
whether or not we ever
dare to peek
below the shuttered
surface of self
so seemingly
fated.
