Boxes

A Poem by Krutika

My thoughts on how we talk about gifts endlessly, but how we fail to see the boxes they come in!

She stays in boxes,
Yes, I think, she does!
In fancy packaged ones
with walls, coated opaque
even those transparent
fragile ones
I wonder, why ever bother
with the make
Custom made, she says
when all she ever do,
Is make sure they break!
Ripped apart or
shattered to pieces!

Boxes, I think, are nothing special
means to be noticed,
a false sense of security must be!
Or restraints, unwanted
an element of surprise maybe!
a purpose, purely commercial
nothing out of the ordinary!
She chortles, her laugh ringing out,
an echo, within the box she lies
while her voice carries
no speck of doubt, a certainty
as she chimes,
'Boxes are the only way
to make you realize
that I am a gift, contained.
Like the pockets of air you breathe'

© 2017 Krutika

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Chase Dylan

Boxes are all I need to believe in the fox... Oh wait... I do not think you said fox... *Snaps fingers...* Adored the metaphors and wordplay in this one, especially the end line... Like the pockets of air you breathe, a gift, don't you see... False security blankets in the shape of 3D squares... Very... Boxily penned... Hah!