In Old Boxes

old sores stored in cold of
scuffed up, wooden
boxes,

caged by weepy walls
which force cracks n’ creaks
to breathe and
speak,

freak-outs silhouette the
stained-glasses i’ve
left streaked,

once flattered heart shatters,
my scattered puzzle
without glue,

packed out of way,
in old boxes
too.

One thought on “In Old Boxes

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