Season of Pandora
A box locked with the horrors of my aura
Peaks and valleys
These cheeks will dally
The calli of a Person I want you to know.
This Person has learned
Which rendition to churn
Always derning the version I could never show.
Once eyes have closed
My dallied peaks sowed
With breath slowed
Down into the depths of my slumber.
If the monsters under bed
Are too haunted to deaden
Their hunger,
I wonder: who haunts these halls unencumbered?
These Ghouls and Ghosts
Must be I who hosts,
This ghastly insanity, far too awful to boast.
In this glass castle of pains
Stained with remains
Johari’s window must be closed upon waking, I know.
Sagaciously certain
Which versions to curtain-
Unless you are someone who treads here unshyly?
Veracious or fallacious?
You choose, which phase of
Me I get to be- but be warned: choose wisely…
A hoard of Ladies and Lords,
Each mask carefully stored
In a box locked with the horrors of my aura.
And every time I unbind
The lock with this rhyme
Be prepared for the Season of Pandora.
About the Creator
Marina C.
Marina is a lover of the world, an explorer of the mind. She is a mover, a healer, an avid student, and an artist. She seeks to see all of the corners of the world and hear all of its songs. She stands up for what we stand on.
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