The Gift
Each year, for seven days, it sat upon the shelf
between the silver candle and the season's elf;
It's once glorious value now a faded red
labeled so with speckled stains from bitter tears shed.
For forty years, more, her ritual has been thus;
a once vivacious thing who's clearly missed the bus.
It was the giver, not the gift, she should enjoy
the god of beauty and desire, Aphrodite's boy.
On promise made, she gave him all, her everything,
then came the hour he sent this red box wrapped with string.
She would walk past the box, occasionally smile;
cradle in her arms, rock like a baby for a while.
Up till the moment that the Gin took its effect,
and then, the bitterness and bile let loose unchecked
wild-eyed anger, spittled lips screaming out profanes.
Doesn't know what's in the box but knows what it contains;
loss of trust, loss of faith, and loss of all desire,
all thrown upon her vanity's funeral pyre.
She'll put away the gift until she needs a fix
of wallowing self-loathing from her box of tricks.
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