A house stands,

On the edge of the town.

It doesn’t bare a covering,

That reaches to the heaven,

Nor does it hold the basins,

Which dip deep into the earth.

It’s foundation stands firm,

Its windows clean.

The walls inside, white,

Begin to lean.

But far beyond the simple hallway,

A door is open,

Showing a bright and wonderful ray.

Two sides,

A strange peculiar but friendly yellow-red.

From corner to corner,

From mirror to bed,

Every space is filled,

With something of shape;

Something of size.

On the right, pictures smile,

Welcoming smiles, but to the left,

A box of lies.

In this room a child dwells.

She never opens up that box,

For fear of what she knew before.

She keeps that box,

In the corner.

It seems to burn a hole in the floor.

She means to throw it out one day,

But now it just seems impossible.

The things inside,

Are just so in-toss able.

Though she hasn’t opened it for years,

She knows what it holds inside.

She knows one day, she’ll have to open it up,

And see what for years, she’s tried to hide.

She knows that on top of all the papers,

Is a sheet that holds the truth.

She knows when she’ll have silver in her hair,

She’ll remember that box from her youth.

She knows that it’ll always be hard,

To live life knowing that one day someone will know.