A musty door slides sharply to the left

Each hanger, carrying its worn material seems to clear a path

And residing there with its own sense of belonging is the box of theft

Little does anyone know: The box holds emotion’s wrath.

 

The box much like Pandora’s contains sleeping, spiteful, spirits ready to escape

But his spirits are the emotions of time’s past

As the lid lifts off, pixels grab each other ready to create image’s shape

They dance together to the music of the past, dancing until memory appears at last

 

The image is a dark abyss: The large dark room

There is chairs ready for people but not people ready for chairs

Tears pass down the cheeks in fright of the uncertain doom

All wants to hide in the deep corners of the room but no one dares

 

Across the dark hallway is a shiny floor that leads to a man

He lays on the table, his heart jumps from one side to another in a beat

Thoughts take flight across his mind, as he reminds himself

All will be done that can

And then in the same way as Apollo’s chariot changes the day’s sky to night

A medicine sweeps across, and the man’s lights fades to a dark sight

 

 

An artist at his easel assesses his creation and the new damage

A plan to remove the unneeded without causing harm is created

There isn’t the time to recreate a new perfection

At this instance science’s reliability leaves no room to be questioned

 

The man is the art work and he lies in his frame

The artist operates removing the mess and covering the shame

In the large dark room the many wait for any news

They search for the result; the truth

 

And then the image blurs and quickly disappears

And all returns and falls back into the box

The path is lost

And replaced in its place are purple socks with paws.