Poetry

Illusions of Youth

I thought,

Love was a music box

A perfect gift

That played a perfect tune

No doubting or questions or caution

So I waited

For my music box

But the boxes

That brushed against my eager heart

Just screeched and bit my fingers

There was

One 

That played a 

Merry tune and it almost made me quite unsteady

But it soon became wearisome and tiring and boring

And yet another 

That had a tune

So sweet that I wept with delight

But I could not open it

And it could not be mine

I waited

Desiring for my music box

But none soothed

Only bruised and pierced my skin 

With sharp corners and trapped my flesh within their lids

Shall I ever find my perfect box?

I fear not

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