Someone once gave me a small box full

Of sorrow, of pain, of truth.

It had a certain spiral pull,

Which swallowed my smile and drained my youth.

I held it in a hole in my chest,

A brick between two atria.

It spent its time as I did -- repressed,

And festered an almost mania.

But the box held deeper the small glimpse of a spark,

And with the sorrow came hope.

A lighter light in a darker dark

Created life’s kaleidoscope.

It took me years to understand

That this box, too, simply lent a hand.