There once was a box
That sat on a shelf
It sat on a shelf in the hall
It wasn’t too deep
And it wasn’t too wide
It wasn’t too short
Or too tall
Rectangular grey
It sat day by day
It went quite unnoticed by all
The box had four sides
A bottom and top
Of metal-edged glass, it was wrought
All painted, and yet
Some bits had flaked off
Where the glass glistened through
No one gave it a thought
At the apex a ring
A curious thing
Unused since the box had been bought
So the box on the shelf
Had been all but forgot
By whoever positioned it there
What was it for?
Why did it wait?
Will anyone come?
Does anyone care?
Its purpose concealed
Will soon be revealed
To all who may pass, so beware
Inside the box
Is the tiniest flame
Unseen by the nakedest eye
It glows as it grows
It burns as it yearns
To be seen and acknowledged
By those who pass by
The temperature rises
In this box of surprises
But truly, I cannot say why
The paint on the glass
Of the box in the hall
Peels off at a furious rate
The heat growing hotter
The glass now reveals
The flame trapped within
It has ended its wait
It wants to ignite you
Deceive and delight you
As it alters its pre-conceived fate
For the box in the hall
Is a lantern of sorts
And the lantern’s essentially me
Year after year
The paint was applied
By circumstance
Choices and powers that be
And the flame that had raged
Grew dim as I aged
Until nearly no one could see
Death brushing by
Must have stirred me to act
No longer content on the shelf
Little by letter
Little by word
I built up the flame
That’s revealing itself
I’ve become what I am
I’m a writer, goddamn
And the shelf, I’ll reserve for the elf
About the Creator
Denise Shelton
Denise Shelton writes on a variety of topics and in several different genres. Frequent subjects include history, politics, and opinion. She gleefully writes poetry The New Yorker wouldn't dare publish.
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