This box.
I’ve wrapped myself in the darkness inside it,
I’ve run my fingers upon its walls
Feeling the coldness of stone left untouched by the sun.
This box.
There was a time when it was just a place for
Storing my heartaches and
Containing my sorrows
But one day I poured too much, and I myself
Tipsy, teetering, tumbled.
I fell in.
And I have not escaped since.
This box.
Every day, I tell myself
“You’ll get out.”
“You’ll find a way.”
“You can do it.”
But my hands slip from the rims and edges
And my feet falter and fumble
And I spend one more day, one more eternity,
In this box.
This box.
I heard someone call through the walls of wailing and layers of lies
That He’s coming to save me,
That I will soon bask in the light,
Be free once more.
But, this box…
I had grown to like it.
Somewhere between the lines of fear and pain
I had lost my love for what’s righteous.
Like a child walking to close to the train tracks
I was too self-absorbed to know what was good for me.
This box.
I let my screams run out,
And as they echoed in the cube
I drowned out His promises
And all fell silent.
This box.
A figure appears at the hole at its top
He says
“I won’t give up on you,
Even if you’ve given up on me.”
A ladder falls towards me,
And He descends to rescue me.
He picks me out of the murky waters.
“Stop!” I scream
He carries me toward the light.
“You’ll die if you save me!” I cry.
His foot ****** itself on a pain,
His hands fill with welts from a worry,
“Let me be who I’m used to being!” I howl.
We reach the surface, and my eyes open for the first time.
I stare at my savior.
“Thank you. But… you could’ve died, for me.”
He smiles, then extends his arms to show the scars of the Cross.
“Who says I haven’t?”
This box.
I am a slave to my own pains no more.
I now live in God’s holy light.
Warm.
Exhilarating.
Scintillant.
A friend of mine made a religious poem that I really liked.
It's a spoken word poem.
