Poetry

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I received a gift this morning; it was wrapped up with a bow
What resided inside, I was curious to know

The bow was bright and lovely; I thought to put it in my hair
But it tore as I untied it, then wasn’t fit to wear

I gazed upon the paper wrapped around my gift-untold
I’d take the pretty wrapping off; a fan to crease and fold

But the paper ripped to pieces, there would be no homemade fan
Only scraps of tattered paper, lying limply in my hand

The box is all that’s left now; it sits naked on the floor
Looking plain and lifeless, not enticing like before

But as I opened up the box, so carefully and light
I found the box was empty and I screamed, “This isn’t right!”

As I cried amid the ruins sobs were muffling my words
But above my wail and moaning, a still-small voice was heard

“I’m glad you liked my bow of blue, I knew it matched your eyes
I hoped you’d find appealing the special way I had it tied

Your paper as a canvas, was painted by my hand
I longed for you to cherish it and smile, as I had planned

The box was yours to treasure, a world of beauty to behold
The space that dwelt within the walls, not to have, but just to hold

For the inside was my vessel; I was to live there deep within
You eagerly destroyed my gift before you let me in.”

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