I have a little box.
It's plain and sturdy and it locks.
It's a proper place,
for the cold disgrace,
of my souls great paradox.

It's old and made of wood,
but I wouldn't change it if I could.
As there's something stark,
In its scuffs and marks,
That can only be called good.

It's stood up over the years.
It's held on to my dreams and tears.
It's dark and it's dusty,
but remarkably trusty,
As a means to make peace with my fears.

I have a little box,
and if only it could talk,
It would tell a story,
of pain and glory,
and a life filled with hard knocks.