"The Wooden Box" Written By Milena Grubor

In chambers dark, where shadows swoop,

And melancholy spirits group,

I kept the sorrow's hidden loop,

A burden from the past to scoop.

Within the small and wooden frame,

Remains that whisper of my shame,

I hid the life I cannot claim,

And called the specters by their name.

They left my daylight hours free,

No thoughts of grief encroached on me,

But when the clock struck number three,

They forced the truth upon my klee.

They crept to show the former face,

A spirit lost to time and space,

A haunting memory of disgrace,

That holds my troubled soul in place.

I dug the earth where moss did cling,

Beneath the clouds that sorrow bring,

To hush the song they used to sing,

And stop the constant, subtle sting.

I left the remnants where they fell,

No churchly blessing, prayer, or knell,

I turned away from that dark cell,

And cast the fragments into hell.

My heart, a pendulum of lead,

Swings ever toward the lonely dead,

No living thought is ever fed,

But only sorrows newly bred.

The moon above, a spectral disc,

Observed the grim and heavy risk,

I took to banish, swift and brisk,

The bitter burden of the husk.

The earth I packed was cold and damp,

Beside the broken, mossy tamp,

Extinguished was the vital lamp,

Of what they were within the camp.