The Box

A man hands you a box

And says, “Inside is exactly what you want.”

So… What’s inside the box?


I’m tempted by the imagination of a gryphon

A young cub named Alastair

I’d raise him as my dear son

All of him, feathers and lion’s hair


I want to say I’d hold a stone

Something rare and precious and small

It needn’t be diamond or pure gold

Just something acquired by answering adventure’s beck and call


Perhaps a key to a mansion, grand

With every room I’ve veer dreamt of

One overlooking ocean sand

In back, roses and an oak grove


Mayhaps a simple timepiece

Fitting in the palm of my hand

Telling me it’s time for tea

Or to devise a whimsical plan


A violin of finest model and make

A guitar of purest tone

One I cannot break

In which my fame will be made known


A weapon I used in a war

Telling my stories with tears

Weeping, I reenact the horror

And bring to life a mother’s greatest fears


A steaming mug of coffee

Taste in purest form

As through my favorite book, I leaf

Out a nearby window, a raging storm


But moreso something you cannot find

Something of my own invention

That I created in my mind

A body’s natural extension


A dozen tickets to the horizon

All the places I’ve never been

Paris, Peru, Glasgow, Dublin

I scarce know where to begin


A license with permission to fly

And keys to wings of my own

A vessel with sail and standard high

Captained by dear friends with which I’ve grown


Or the hand of my dear friend

As we dance and sing under the stars

The way we ought to, before the end

Cancer truly can a child’s heart mar


So what have I in my hand

When I open that sacred box?

Weak at the knees, unable to stand

To decide is to mutiny, to deny is to be kept locked


It’s hard for me to fight

When I’ve got more than I deserve to want

Harder for me to decide

Afraid if I don’t, I give in to daunt


Now in my hand, I hold the thought

I’ll have all this and more, I can live again

Because, in fact, I’ve been bought

By Christ, my dear friend

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Michelle builds starships.

Sharing my story through a science fiction blog.

Paola Trimarco

Writer and Linguist

"I saw the Angel in the marble, and carved until I set him free"

Jo Writes Fantasy

Born in Poland | Living in Texas Now | Hype

Way Too Fantasy

Speculative fiction book reviews and more!

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