Inside my box are some photographs,
every tattered frame captures
my passion
each one, another memory
not just one thousand
words,
words I wouldn't let roll
off my tongue, but
those that are like clockwork
on the inside
much like a brick house,
much like our home
the people are living like
moss
and underneath stones.

Inside my heart is gray
though, I am not old
like the photographs
on the outside
I can breathe
and work to make a living
that's what a young man does
so why do I feel so old?
Because I carry so much
weight with me?
Maybe I'd be happier if
I only existed in a frame
my heart would close its lid
like the box.