Now she's in a box, adorned with words of love but a crude box, nonetheless, a nine-year-old's rudimentary attempt at mummification. Probably not good to still be there on the table. Somebody needs to take the lead. Grab a shovel in one hand and dig and dig, heavy and furious in the early morning, breaking the frost and grunting on the bitter air. Who dares to be cast as the sexton?
Still we go through the motions amid the decay and the narrowing of days like arteries. The guinea pig in a box, a victim of procrastination, tripping on toys and cursing lightly. She was too white and too pure for this world; the angels among us alight only briefly to warm us with their sad, sardonic smiles.
(Come Undone by Duran - totally fabby song BTW)
There's a routine of sorts, like the tug of a rope, in and out of work. Tunnels open and shut. Lights come on and go out. Feelings are shuttered. Until, one day we realize we became misaligned somewhere along the road. A wrong shaped peg, that's spat from the system. To conform is to blanch and mask ourselves with the weasel words and clothes of others; to return a hollow stare. Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Until one day we come gloriously undone and break the confines of the miserable little box.