I tried to fit into Pandora’s Box, labelled with a brand, and some stickers. Stacked in lines of rows and aisles.
Packaged to protect the heart and supress the mind, confined to the archives of a time and times past-tense.
Beneath the corrugated flaps, the bubble wrap and the scotch tape there was fragile, colourless glass, or so I’d been told;
As I perched on my shelf I was impelled, impaled by the protrusions of the splinters’ taunts and doubts; and my contents felt cold, hard and shallow.
I no longer wished to conform to the length, width and height of my container.
But I was hollow in my thoughts, and filled myself with pretty trinkets, gems and shiny things that rust and break. They were put on sale; idolised, placed on pedal stools and praised in high places.
And I was torn apart from the inside-out, turned-out, naked and gutted for my possessions.
My fate was unfolding.
To be buried in a scrap yard grave, recycled into pulp.
Or fitted and stitched together like some carboard cut-out.
A freak of glue and paper, and of nature.
In my next reincarnation.
The Philosopher's Poet 