Cracked Lid

Have you checked under your pillow? Perhaps beneath your shuttered window? Something only you would know, but would not expect from me. Moonglow casts shadows of deceptive form in the hour before dawn inhales its morning breath. Dewy footprints in the grass lead to the edge of muted light. Come. Pay no attention to what disturbs the quiet behind you – small things. Watch ahead for the guiding light – faintly flickering lightning bugs dancing in frantic display. Come. See what I have for you. Tread carefully lest you crush the saving grace 'neath your feet. Witness all manner of evil filling the night sky in a maelstrom of chaos and pandemonium escaping from the plain wooden box dug from its ancient grave – its lid missing. What of the saving grace of which you possess? At what cost, you ask. Replace the lid. Save us from fiendish possession — you have the gift. Use it. At what cost, you ask again. It will cost. It will cost you the price of love. That is no sacrifice, you say. Tell me . . . And you find the saving grace at your feet, barely missed being trodden to slivers. You quickly fit the lid back into place, careful not to lock love inside, still seeping from the substantial crack across its lid. You are well satisfied. Job well done. All will recover well enough. Now your price, lad . . . You must love again. [Inspired, of course, by "Pandora's Box"]