Black Box

Grim

Macabre scenes, morbid patterns

Bound in shimmering wrong silver thread

The past all laid out quilted,

Stitches shaped into hieroglyphic recollections.

Telling tales of that which was lost,

Unknown yet in the minds of the depictions.

The finished piece now blankets bright days like black snow

Quieting the world, staining it.

Have a picnic in the twilight

Make merry over the dead.

Don't invite the butterflies and the ladybugs

Or the army ants and buttercups.

Just the fireflies.

And ask them why they are so afraid of the daylights?

Ask them if you can ever love the sun,

Like you do in your dreams of cotton clouds.

And hope to God that they're blinking

Y - E - S.