A paper box
Folded out of neat white sheet.
Precise, immaculate
Subtly intense
Placed in your palm
Pressed into hard wall

A white paper box is no play thing
It is mine to give
It has bends and folds and comforting tucks
It must be honoured by a gentle tap and soft air

Should it drop it would not race to floor
But slowly it falls
And faster it is picked up and cradled

Not by you
By the one who folds

Pulse
Pulse

Impulse
Spontaneity

Where do you draw the line and how?

Is it a line with jagged peaks?
And a bit of life.

Pulse

Or is it straight?
Lifeless.

Torn.
I could have sworn.
That you had a stone.

What to do with a stone?
To bare
To share

I could tear
I think
Solely to share
To lie by you
Bare.

A stone.
Would I end up back there?

The Rain
The pain

This heart insane.

The Rain
The sane

This heart in pain.

Who could entertain?
Who could complain?

React?
Distract

This dabbling in disdain.