It’s cool and dark in here.
My favorite time to write.
Most my muses are quite clear,
when day gives into night.
I create worlds of wonder
with the stroke of a key.
My characters jump into life.
I rend societies.
There is no story I can’t tell,
no fiction goes unmastered.
But my muse for poetry
seems quite the tight-lipped…
The Beautiful Box
By Jessica Rising
As a young girl, she often would sit and would think
of the world, its foundation, its ending, its brink.
The lightheartedness of others always on her mind,
yet she knew full well that they were not her kind.
There were times that she wanted to run and to play
but deep Musings don’t often work that way.
So she sat and pondered over many things,
like how the grass grows and how the bird sings.
Yet she wondered the most about life and of death,
and why she was made, why she had breath.
And the days turned to months, and the months turned to years
and still she wondered, without any fears.
As a young lady, on the verge of womanhood,
she found it… the meaning of life, and of good.
Her heart soared with the secret, the treasure.
She held it close to her spirit, as a thing above measure.
It was a Box, beautiful, beyond cost.
It was if she had found something long ago lost.
She opened the Box and found riches within,
new ways of thinking, a new place to begin.
And with them, a blanket, downy and soft.
And she squealed with delight as she held it aloft.
And so, with her Musings, she curled up inside,
shutting the lid, forever to hide.
Inside the Box, at first it was light.
The shining of good, of life, and of right.
Her new thoughts were full of hope and of peace,
promising the Answer and final release.
She was soon happy, content and free.
The most sure of anything she ever would be.
She thought over her Musings, and soon found them lacking
Inside the Box, they seemed evil, stacking
themselves against the light of the Box.
And so she disowned them, as if a pox.
Threw them out into world from whence they came,
and curled up inside her new home, free of blame.
Snuggling under the blanket within
she didn’t notice the warmth rescind.
She saw nothing, not even the absence of light
that had crept in when she banished her fight,
to continue to think, to muse, and to wonder.
After all, the Box banished all need to ponder.
Inside it was safe, inside it was good.
Outside it was bad, wrong, and absurd.
The outside was full of darkness and wrong
and everyone there deaf to the true song.
And her Musings were lost, and her soul became blighted
matching the Box in which it resided.
But her Musings would not give up the fight.
When she threw them out, they did not run from her sight.
They banged on the Box with fervor and might
As deep inside, she shivered with fright.
They shouted, “Come back! We need you to see!
You’re cramped up in there, you need to be free!”
But she did not listen, she would not heed.
They would destroy the Box, once again make her bleed.
Her Musings were bad, things of sin and of rot
and they wanted her back, for what purpose she knew not.
But she did know something she would never deny.
The Box was her one and only allay.
There were Others inside their own towers,
and she listened to them as they spoke of fear for hours.
The fear of the unknown, the fear of knowing,
the fear of thought, the fear of showing
that they had ideas, questions, and doubt.
And always outside, the Musings would shout.
But they were of a dark time when she thought much too deeply.
The Others spoke of danger in hearing completely.
And she listened, and still she was afraid.
For fear is the lock to the Box that was made
to keep those inside that dared to enter in kind.
And she was a prisoner of her ignorant mind.
Then One came who to the Musings was friend,
and they begged One to bring her to them once again.
One looked at the Box with thought and repose.
And One did not respond with blows.
One studied the Box, this way and that.
And finding its secret, smiled and sat,
and said to the Box, “Let her out of there please.”
And the Box replied “I must save her from these.”
Indicating the Musings at One’s side.
But One only chuckled and said, “Foolish pride.
These Musings are hers; they are nothing to fear.
For in them all is crystal clear.”
“You see,” One continued, ignoring the protests
from those Others who still shook with fear in their nests.
“In the beginning, she was granted a Gift,
to use for her pleasure, and to help mend the rift
of Man and of Earth, of Heaven and Hell.
But then you snared her with your musical spell.
Promising riches after she died,
in exchange for removing any trace of pride
she may have had in being unique.
Replaced by fear, filling her ears with a shriek
so that she heard not the Wind, the Water, the Earth.
So that she heard not the Fire, the Spirit, and mirth.”
The Box soon retorted, “Yet I may be correct
in those things which I spoke, and those not spoken yet.
I may be right in that all that you do
will either reward or make punishment for you.
From that punishment I shelter her now.
Forever to sing, to guard and to bow.
Her spirit is mine, for she is afraid
of all I have said, of all I have made.
Free thought means to sin.
Those voices within
must now be silenced, for if they are not
her spirit will suffer, and her soul will rot.”
One only smiled at the Box’s reply.
One shook One’s head and said with a sigh,
“You snare many people with your misery.
Shouting of true freedom, yet your people are not free.
But this one inside you has been called all her life
not by you or by twisted teachings tainted with strife.
Her Musings were there as a gift from the Ones
who truly create, who truly stand in the sun.
Your dark light is the absence of all that is free.
Your teachings are stained, and not truly what He
taught and shouted of life and of good.
He is and was right, but you misunderstood.”
One continued with growing frustration.
It showed in One’s face, as One spoke with great pain.
“You warped the message, thus warping the Teacher.
You have made Him a torturer, a madman, a preacher.
Turning His wisdom into despair,
warping His message without a care.
You use His words to feel important and mighty
and use His truth to force unnatural piety.
Yet while you sat and waited for death
His true people returned and now shout with one breath
‘HE IS LOVE! SHE IS LIFE!
THEY ARE NOT PAIN AND STRIFE!”
With that mighty shout, One lifted the lid
of the Box inside which she hid.
One leaned down and offered One’s hand
and smiled at her as she struggled to stand.
The Box cried out, but it was no use.
Its lock had been broken, she was let loose.
And as she took the hand of the One,
her Musings returned, as when she had begun.
“I’m sorry, forgive me,” she said with a cry.
But One just grinned and said “Now why
should you sorrow for something that’s over and done?
Welcome back to the world of the sun.”