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Boxes

A box sits on freshly mowed grass
Seldom seen faces stand like gray monks
Praying
Ceaselessly glooming at the grounds

The box is a coffin of roughly hewn pine

The faceless, formless, cold figure within
Once flowed like warm creamy sand between
Wandering hands on some sunny days

A loss like pain or fear or both
Flows like flood plains in May
A face becomes a Red canyon
Of roaring sorrow – it bellows and heaves
Tortured contemplation

A whisper – "I'm sorry"
A whisper that becomes a troubled rocking
"I'm Sorry"
A whisper between troubled rocking that
Sears and shakes as wind does within the
Wooden valley – "I'm Sorry" "I'm Sorry"
"I'm Sorry"

Hands grasp and scratch at
The Hollow Pine
Snot like hot corn syrup Smears
Across the bitter sweet smelling pine

Steady heaving
Deep troughs of the ocean
Toss and crash upon lonely shores
Cascading and drowning itself
Over and over
Only broken by a whisper

Hands that grasp and scrape the hollow
Pine suddenly free fall into each other
Breaking a space without
Breaking the Golden bitter pine

Groping blindly, unthinking, unknowingly
A shuffle like kitchen draws being
Violently opened and closed thrashes
Crashes
Thrashing like coins or sheet metal
Fumbling over each other follow the
Hands

Confusion
A wind blown flame
Entangle and strangle any distant
Breath of reality

Revealing within the Hollow
Pine Silver utensils – Spoons,
Forks and knives

Curiosity
Like fury and hope
Empowers the hands which now
Hurriedly rip, tare and smash apart
The Hollow Pine

Bleeding hands drip crimson wine
Upon roughly hewn Golden Pine
No Warm Sand
No Cold Stare
Just Empty Air
All within The Hollow Pine

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