In a Cold Iron Box

I found an old poem today which mentioned a cold iron box with a porcelain lock, and I really liked that image. It made me write this little poem.



In a cold iron box

With porcelain locks,

I kept my most terrible secret.

But time broke the locks,

And rust ate the box,

And now I don’t know where to keep it.


I could ask the bees

Or maybe the trees,

But the leaves would whisper to the wind.

And just like the trees,

Every one of the bees

Would tell, and by you I’d be skinned.


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