On an olden desk of wood,
Where the timber speaks of shards,
There kept was a black box,
Devoid of any charades.
In it were some inked scrolls,
Faded and yet so clear.
It beamed out feelings never shared,
And never faired;
Too well.
There was no dust or dirt around,
Too often it was felt,
Impression that it was close to heart,
Too close to let go or share.
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