Boxes
Each box holds its secret.
Old memories, dreams that died.
The sum of every promise-
the dividends and sighs.
Paper, cloth, and pottery-
a postscript of our prime.
Wrapped in yellow newsprint-
the passing of our time.
Clutter from our passions
lay there dead in place.
While ties among the living
die somewhere else in space.
Written Aug 13, 2018
Copyright © Francis J Grasso | Year Posted 2018
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