There is the memory box,
Ragged and worn.
Dusty and forgotten,
Battered, beaten, torn.

Filled with nothing
But old photographs,
Papers and trinkets
That once made you laugh.

But the box doesn’t hold
A single one of these things.
In the box are glares dowsed in venom,
Skinned knees, the loneliness destruction brings.

In the box are broken hearts,
Missed chances, the end of the rope.
In the box are desperate measures,
The fight we can’t win; the loss of all hope.

In the box is a song of love,
A word of wisdom, joyful cries.
An everlasting friendship, a sign of trust,
The power of innocence behind the lies.

The past is the present
And the present is here.
Our lives are chaotic
And outlined in fear.

But the memory box is lined with peace
It watches and gives us strength from afar
To help us embrace who we have been
And to never forget who we are.