There's a crunchy rustle as I stuff my poems into Pandora's box.

I know you're not supposed to mess with it- but I worry the energy in there- the spirit (if it is one) gets lonely.

It must be terribly bored after all this time.

I pass it poetry- my poetry- so that it knows me.

I'm not known to many people.

I've been a whisper in rooms—a stray glance on the street.

Others don't go looking for me- and yet, they find me all the time.

I keep Pandora company. Even immortals feel lonely.

Especially immortals.

When you stand outside time- you lose the weight of emotion.

You lose the depth of experience.

You are dead without dying.

You are damned without sinning.

It is heartbreaking- to hearts that are not allowed to beat.

So, I write my words on loose scraps of paper—the backs of receipts & used lottery tickets. I scribble short lines to elicit enough energy for a single charge. An artificial return to life held within fading ink.

I am the Stork and Reaper within a single stanza.

I am four seasons in one day.

I am still trying.