Memorys jangle in a box pressed tightly shut
In persistance to defy the rule
Some turn black, not white to a pressured touch
Most prevail an absence of light,
Running along side
Flashes of liquid nitrogen ice
Only halting to induce
Rymthmic contortions of twisting fire
That remain impossible to douse
And with each extreme,
Skin melts to an inhuman sheen

But some, have a fresh flavor to them
An array of notes with a varying pitch
Something with slight peace in it
A lemony zest and clean pictures
Of comfortable closeness that shimmers

Scraps of paper flutter
Holding onto an utter, of emotions inscribed
In a black box that has survived

One deep breath of the toxins inside
Is infectious
It jabs pins into smooth corners of the brain
Nothing is as addictive as this kind of pain
It keeps beauty but builds an eye saw
As every heart felt thought
or sudden avid action
Is recorded, kept safe under this lid
In an inbetween place, thats so well hid
It creates its own painting with colors
Etched from the soul of its owner
This box it may get worn and thin
Or the latches may stick
Its inevitability getting older
But its initial electricity
It cannot an will not ever grow colder