A Withered Box

A withered box of magazines,
An era now behind,
A necklace strung with pearled eyes
To watch the nape’s white pulse.
A candied tomb of wondering,
To choke the sordid past,
And slithered dreams of wanderlust
To haul you from the road.
A book of names and alphabets
To keep the records straight,
A faded fur picked clean by mites,
And aphrodisiacs of sound.
You hum the tunes Victrola spit
To realign your history.
A Polaroid of witnessed bliss,
To sanctify the mind, to bring you back
And span the times when sepias were lived.
A withered box so frail and spent
Will undermine the mind.