A big red box, my suitcase, tucked under my bed. Is the box merely a box? No, I’m afraid.
Bearing throws, bearing blows, bearing scratches, sporting patches. Generously forgiving, my wheeled travel companion, emerging to unite with me on the conveyor belt. Passing through dark x-rays, scans and scrutiny, yet preserving my harmless secrets.
Impregnated by elements of my identity, without which I’m bare, Stacked with my casual wear, party wear, foot wear and my inner wear. Along with my gadgets and my books, my paper pad and my pen, My big red box with a hanging tag, bearing my name.
My friend familiar in unknown land, stuffed with my memories and possessions grand. My big red box is not merely a box, But a collage of myself, at the reach of my hand.
Am I Alive, or am I dead? Is this all just a dream inside my head? I feel like I’m losing my grip. Quick say something, anything before I slip. Nightmares slowly creeping. Has he finally come to do the
The very essence of love is uncertain, A relentless thumping of the heart. I must speak to you by such means as they are within my reach. He pierces my soul driving me into madness. I am half agony, half
The moon awaits eagerly in the same pedestal it ignited my passion. What lips, my lips have kissed, are long forgotten. The memories easily quickened as a few puddles along the way I voluntarily stepped in. What arms have lain