The Thought-Box

By

Four corners, four walls

Contort in shadowed display.

He stares, then replies, same as you –

Everybody does it don’t they?

Choose your final method,

Then crawl away and hide.

Do not dare resurface

Forever you must now reside

In this box of bonding;

A pot-boiler room of fear.

We smoke and we drink,

Are you tired? Are you near?

There are empty poems

To hide and not be found.

They are not quite solid

They are not yet bound

But you told me to write

My way out of the box,

So every morning at dawn

I meet your Thought-Fox.

This midnight moment locked

Until death do us part –

The dark hole of my head

Re-framed as your tragic art.

Image: skeeze via Pixaby

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