‘In death,’ he whispered, ‘I see a face.’
And upon his dresser there is a box,
It is one that stays forever locked.
‘I hide it well,’ he said, ‘I shan’t ever tell.’

Keep you secrets
Padded and locked,
Weighted down to ocean rocks,
Their sleek and fleeting frills do not interest me.

And that velvet box there sits,
Singularly pondering, menacing in fashion.
The shadows reflected from its opaque design,
That ghost across the walls, splashed red with wine.

‘You will never know,’ he snickers, ‘Never, never.’
And lancing his heart, from start to finish,
There depicted an image
Of bleeding eyes, scarred surprise, sawed off fingers,
And a face that lingers.
Watch its eyes—-darting—-starting at slight movement
Withered and sunken.

And his shaking hands still
Grip and grab at those ghosting shadows
That skirt across those mahogany walls,
Their slipping design just as insidious
As their owner—

His intentions to keep those dark
Fiends from sneaking through cracks,
His silken box—the one he locks away
Those frightening lullabies—
His frightening realities,
Touched with tragedies.

And he knows it still leaks forth
Those demons, the ones that slide
Those invisible pins under his
Nails—
Jammed one by one
--they’re making this
oh
so
fun.

‘But what will happen,’
(some dare to question)
when this lock does open—
when the curiosity of some
mysterious visitor does intrude—
what will happen to those vicious
nightmares, when they slip from
the confines--the dreary forevers
of lamenting widows and dieing
heroes.

His face so elegantly gnawed
from the hounds of worry
And the beasts of fear, his eyes perfectly
Pumped with veins from the sleepless years,
But a smile does twitch to life,
Like a beaten wife
When such a drunken husband
Does call.

‘Don’t question wisdom,’ he always draws,
‘Don’t tempt fate,’ the rotten finger nails
itch to feel the reality of this statement.
Upon pins he sits, upon the machetes of
Death—-just a hairsbreadth away from
The cutting silence of forever.

In his withered character,
In his sagging form lies the beauty
Of the squeamish organs of fear
And the razor blade cuts of anxiety.
This box, his vulnerability, his hidden lusts,
His fears, tears, and broken trusts, in which
locked away,

Secret—
(should I whisper you?)
The velvet death that sits
Upon his breast, upon his mind
From time to time—and upon his
Dresser, its oh-so-sleek design—
The evils, the thrills, the tilting
Kills, this shady container
(this pleasing restrainer)
of desperation—-the box
that rocks
with his rambunctious fears—
contains nothing but
Air.

Oh,
but
Beautiful paranoia.
‘You are a fool,’
and the twitching smile does
revive that arrogance of
the self-denied.

‘Never, never,’
he repeats,
‘Never, never,’
he whispers while
he
sleeps.