The Last Box

It comes down to this,
when the map has been found
and followed,

and you are finally there,
with the last box waiting
to be opened

and you are suddenly unsure
if what you will find
will be the demons of Pandora

or the treasure of Solomon.

About this poem

The two boxes sit in a cubby on my desk, two of several boxes I have from all over the world, some that I have bought, some that others have bought me. Tiny little treasure chests, each with a meaning and a story.

I am reading a fairly badly written novel right now about the Templar treasure, a topic very much in vogue these days by writers of historical fiction.

Somehow, these two things got me thinking about therapy (Please, don’t ask my how. The mind is a strange thing sometimes.) and how, when you begin you really don’t know what you will find. You may think so, but you don’t. It’s a journey of discovery and when you are done, you always come to that essence of who and what you are. And it takes courage to make the journey, courage to open those last wounds and discover what really, really lies within.

Tom