You can't kill a mailbox,
Although you may try.
They sprout up like weeds,
They will never truly die.
You might find something good,
Maybe even something great.
Or you might find a letter,
A paper filled with hate.
Maybe a scholarship,
Or perhaps a gift.
Maybe a package,
Just something for a lift.
Walk out to this box,
Day after day,
Just hoping for something,
Something you don't have to pay.
Nothing ever comes,
Nothing good.
It's a cruel joke,
As if something ever would.
You can't kill a mailbox,
Although you may try.
They sprout up like weeds,
They never truly die.
But you,
Your time will come.
You dread it now,
The final coming of the Sun.
One last day,
To breathe, to think.
One last day,
Until you sink.
Something is in the mailbox,
You've heard that familiar sound,
The clinking of the metal,
The barking of the hound.
Of what it will be,
You can only wish.
You open the mailbox,
Someone has left you a dead fish.
