an old wooden box
occupies the middle shelf

the metal clasp is rusted
but he put it there himself

the pride and dignity not forgotten
as the ballerina spins

the world turns slowly from her post
as she remembers what could have been

the quiet tune of the little box runs low
and the sound slowly fades

sometimes the memories shut inside
are kept and locked away

but ever so slowly
as she spins around

the string that made her spin
decided to come unwound

the memories drift off
as the box becomes one that's broken

the words and things you never said
will forever remain unspoken
 
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