Boxes Plain Boxes

  In the cold of the evening starlight ablaze, a woman was captured in torturous ways, She had left all she'd known on a table somewhere and had come to the field to wait out and find rest for her tears. Baggage came with her and filled up the field, boxes and boxes of feelings and grief, piled up higher till covered in unresolved heaps. The trucks kept on coming and dumping their loads of wasted events and sadness, boxes of times when the throng throttled her soul. Pictures of essays were blowing about, hardships and mishaps left scattered and torn. In the midst of it all she sat in a daze, not knowing what was real or imagined or where this and that came. Memories, confusion, lost to the wind, nothing had happened, or all had what then. No one to help her no one who cared, no one to sort through the passages there. Alone in the field with reality gone she sat in a daze humming a song. Songs about babies falling from trees, and songs about bankers, robbers and thieves. She hummed as she wandered and picked up a sheet written in cursive gentle and neat. What could this be doing out here, where was this picture from, was her ever so neat. Piles of papers kept blowing around, and nothing was anything and all things came down. How long will she be here, how could she get out? Did she want to leave and let loose the naught history behind. Or was its value in having already been found. She climbed to the top to see where she'd been, and glanced at endless boxes of sin. Tunes kept repeating their notes in her head. Passions laid aside and thoughts once kept neat and dead. All resurrected for the grand wizardry man who listens intently coffee in hand. "What do you think, and how do you feel, why do you do that come on let's get real" But she'd lost half the story and couldn't find a thread for the haystack of needles deep inside her head. "Break from this bondage" he says with a laugh. "Walk away from these boxes down pleasantry path." "No! they are mine," she screams with a roar,"I've kept them and held them and stroked them galore. They may be mixed up, they may be a mess, but they are all mine they're a comfort in sense. Bad things can happen when others come in, try to straighten and toggle and neaten my sin. Don't you tell me to walk, way form my things, they've been with me always to them I will cling" He sits and he smiles and knowingly nods, he's seen it before this clinging facade. He feels for the woman all scared and alone, he's trying to help her, lighten her load. Trust is a feeling she lost long ago, and thinking he'll leave her cold and alone. The starlight is fading the moon fails to rise and the woman is left with her boxes of lies. No one has helped her get this far along. and no one will know her once she is gone. The man in the chair sits and he cries, as he watches her wither and slowly demise. Into herself she scrunches in shame, knowing she failed him the playing this game. Tomorrow will come, the boxes will grow and she will be buried once more afraid and alone. Out in the field with her boxes of pain, looking for somewhere that she can remain.