Trunk
It stood there, the trunk
oddly on its end;
dust lay testament
to its untouched years
of keeping the past.
The lid, now a door,
which, should it open,
would spill out secrets.
No need to dig deep,
rummage, discover;
stuff would come tumbling;
the unstoppable
detritus of life,
no longer hidden.
Copyright © Terry Miller | Year Posted 2023
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