There's a box, I keep a lid on,
at the centre of my soul.
It's got several locks, of, division,
to keep it full, and, whole.

It's not Pandora's, or, a goalkeeper's,
it is mine, and, mine, alone.
It once, got porous, and, holier,
so, I rebuilt it, out of stone.

The box, holds all, my pain,
all my sorrow, all my fears.
All the times, I've tried in vain,
to only borrow, Grief's own tears.

The box, is very, weary now.
I...