With the recent turbulent events, some of us have been quite lucky to be safe and far away from the kind of human interactions we were used to. I have been able to reflect and reconnect with my conscience, and through this, I aim to portray exactly that idea.
The Harlequin of mystic fog hangs above the box.
A plain gingham sheet sits beneath it and,
the warm, soulful sun ages the wood.
I have seen the box.
It lays beside me,
And when the clouds crowd the sun, I hear it whimper.
It’s a rather functional box,
the smoothed edges and polished mahogany skin gleam.
I’d like to open it, but the bolts tighten it.
And when you shake it, you can hear it whirring inside.
I know the box.
Its vicinity stirs a zing within me.
I’d like to make peace with the box,
We haven’t been close lately.
It is my box,
an entity so dear that it’s distance harrows me.
I keep it on a high shelf and dust it
When in times of need.
Until its reed finish shines frenzied,
And its wooded scent envelopes me.
A charge reaches out to me,
Calls me, for the box is filled with silken sheets.
They hold tight around my lips,
A softened suffocating feeling,
Buttered, unwoven, unreeled.
The thick fog gathers around the box,
Settling moist on the tweed and the gingham sheets.