Down the metal stairs past the pull chain light
Into the musty basement where I sleep at night
There’s a box in the corner made old of wood
I look at it there in the darkness and I wish I could
Dust off the top and take a peek at what’s inside
Try to reconcile all the reasons how and why
But I just stand there silent cemented to the floor
Cold to the touch alone silhouetted in the door
The air is thick with burlap and miller shells
Forgotten by time a tomb with a story to tell
Over my shoulder I look back as I start to leave
At the box in the corner the prettiest parts of me
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