the box of surface pretensions
the box of surface pretensions
I am only allowed, one flavour
to be.
One standard to design, to define
to be me.
I can play just one instrument and just
one note,
at a rhythm preset by a
popular vote.
Inside this box, this interminable
shell
I am often told, scolded, that all know me not
too well.
Far better than me or all that
I know
I am supposed to sit on the shelf, and never
dare grow.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Hey, it is new, what more do you want, world?
1 comments:
I enjoyed your poem this morning.
It reminds me of several things. Pandora's box, and also, strangely, The Littlest Angel, by Tazwell. If you can find a copy with the original artwork, I highly recommend it. The copy I used to read had been my mother's, that is the edition that stirred me. Some may see it as a simplistic tale, but I saw it as a great confirmation that the things we keep locked away in our private treasure boxes are the things God most loves about his children. My best friend read the text aloud at my son's funeral. It is a great peace [sic] of bibliotherapy for those doubting their worth or potential.
-a
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