A metal box perfectly centered in the room,
An air of anticipation begins to loom,
Examining each side meticulously attached,
As if the lock is almost purposely unlatched.
Distance lost as one slowly circles into touch,
Fingertips graze the surface but feel far too much,
Found rapidly refraining as the cold mounts their veins,
Sudden, yet quick to leave and emptiness remains.
Blinding shimmer reflecting all angles of the box,
Appears to be sturdy but it easily rocks,
Closing the yellow blinds and taking a seat nearby,
Heating as one caresses the ground where it lie.
The darkness finds the box slightly off to the right,
There is ease in its grasping as it tires in its fight,
The inside of the box is blurry, at least in part,
It seems less of perfection and more of an art.
