House Poet

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In the days of my youth, a box was bestowed, 
To cradle my treasures, my dreams, my ode. 
It shimmered like starlight, new and bright, 
With delicate etchings that danced in the light. 

As seasons changed, the box filled its space, 
With mementos of laughter, each memory a trace: 
A stub from a show where we roared with delight, 
A bracelet from shores kissed by the night. 

But time wore on, and the seams began to stretch, 
The etchings grew faint, their beauty a sketch. 
The hinges grew weak, rust claimed its reign, 
The soft lining was damaged with marks of joy and pain. 

Inside lay my history, ideally stored, 
Yet the treasures reflected my heart, somewhat bored. 
When opened, their glow spoke of journeys once shared, 
Of laughter and love, of moments we dared. 

Now the box flickers, on the brink of despair, 
But it held so much life, each treasure laid bare. 
Though its form may falter, its purpose rings true: 
It cherished my past, and I strive to do too.