There is a box.

It sits there on a shelf in the closet.

In that box,

There is a hole,

Leading to a heart beset by its’ soul.

There is a box,

Full of dusty, forgotten histories,

Faded time,

Which haunts and seeks,

As a wintery, cold breeze;

It ebbs and piques.

There is a box,

Which stores ages’ unfaceable decrees,

In the faces.

Pictures.  Photos.

Wailing: what-cannot-be’s no one else knows.

There is a box.

It sits there on a shelf in the closet.

In that box,

There lie remnants,

Of a splintered-hearts’ kismet,

In a glance.

Can you see it?

The box of ghosts tucked away on that shelf?

Whispering….

Psst…over here…

Lie truths you hide from yourself,

And you fear.

K. Aldaya, 5/18/14

Picture:  Photographer Unknown; http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_t1__dHwvHEI/TBhOxBIZY9I/AAAAAAAAJxs/7vv-0AzqF48/s400/IMG_5151a.jpg