The Box in the Attic

In a corner of the attic,
Amidst the must and dust
Lies
An over-used but long-neglected box that’s caked in flaking rust

If you can wander up and in
And work your way past sundry things,
Like
gears and buttons, levers, pulleys, switches and toggles and giant springs

You’ll find the box amidst the stuff
And be tempted to look within it
To
See the things that can’t be seen by the weak or the frail or the timid

Within that box, so hard to find,
Seeming so lost and forgotten,
You’ll
Find the parts of pieces of me, hidden and buried and squirreled away, that some might consider rotten

But if you take the time to look,
To really, truly understand,
You’ll
Find that I’m an incredibly tangled, mangled, strangled and sexual man

And if you look even closer still,
Peering so very deep inside,
You’ll
Know my loneliness comes from the terrible, awful things I hide

Yet if you peel the covers away,
From every bit, however you please,
You
Might discover that as a lover, I think and feel and want and desire a sordid list of wanton acts that bring you to your knees

Then maybe, there, from on your knees
You might say that it’s very rare,
But
You’re the sort of person who would look at me and in my soul and in my box and in my dreams and say you’d love to share.