The secret box


will always have the moon...
and not dare to wish upon falling stars since wishes bring messes
there is always more to clean...
there is always more bending
and always more stairs;
and again, the frost came-
(so, my garden needs tending and my heart a little mending)
and always the corners and boxes-
(speaking of boxes, what happened to your heart?)

same old box, just a different beat;
the echo, sounds strange in the places of purgatory.

The echo’s are troublesome.

i hold tight to the bat on the leg that kicks down the walls
holding back the chains of freedom

until

one day
      i,
beyond repair
and only a sigh
chiming in the wind as the proof of life
knowing
that sigh may warm the frost of your gardens,
so your petals may bloom again,
running red with redemption-
resting at last upon the hands that callous, the softest pillow.