and we all bow down...

my box


my box is made of golden oak,
my lover's gift to me.
he fitted hinges ans a lock
of brass and a bright key.
he made it out of winter nights,
sanded and oiled and planed,
engraved inside the heavy lid
in brass, a golden tree.


in my box are twelve black books
where i have written down
how we have sanded, oiled and planed
planted a garden, built a wall,
seen jays and goldcrests, rare red kites,
found the wild heartsease, drilled a well,
harvested apples and words and days
and planted a golden tree.


on an open shelf i keep my box.
its key is in the lock.
i leave it there for you to read,
or them, when we are dead,
how everything is slowly made,
how slowly things made me,
a tree, a lover, words, a box,
books and a golden tree.


hahahaha
finally finish typing the poem
guess it contains everthing i want to say
hehe
i guess everything is fine
just occasional glances :D
its inevitable you know
hehe
anyways i dont regret comin into a pure lit class
i thought of dropping the subject at the beggining of sec 3
but luckily i did not
cos i enjoy this subject so much
thx ms ng
u re the best :D
i must try to do well for my lit
fufill ms ng s wish
hehe
and i ve decided to type properly
no more short forms
hehe
what if you lose something you cant replace?
we ll see
im going to nap
im out
tata