There’s a box that lies in our cores
Right beside the keep of emotion and blood flow
It harbours a film unrolled, replayed in interrupted cycles
The secrets that shred all we’re made of
And resounds shrieking fear through our membranes
What it conceals frightens, it tears apart a wholeness for it reveals a snippet
a glance into a length stretched,
In time
Of how far we could go
If unchained
The atrocities we bear inside of us
Of the pain we could unleash
And atrocities our hands could weave
If unbridled
As a loose saddle on a fuming stallion
This box
It preserves the horrors of our mortality
Of our responses
Crafted out of moments
And percept that draws itself
To give meaning or extract from piles of recollection
This box
Sealed
Barred as a mockingbird caged
Its song muttered
a symphony confined within bars of its entrapment
a song out of tune, a sour melancholy
Muted in mercy to conserve our humanity
Himyarite 