A pampered box of wood;
scratched, cut, and demolished;
stands in the corner of my heart.
still to be noticed, silenced to be heard.
It holds the memories; raw and baked,
tiny and huge, accomplishments and failures;
from beginning to the end; from young to the old.
The vein in the box holds blood,
the blood and wings made to fly,
but didn’t, couldn’t, and can’t.
time and time, it holds to run; but never it does.
The wood is breaking, and decreasing in self,
trying and trying, but couldn’t find a thing,
when the hope keeps flying;
escapes memories from the torn-hole.