Sonnets from a Lock Box - Part of 3
Here lieth Personal magic in a box.
All that my father had he left to me.
His ghostly properties defy these locks.
His Will still works, although I lose the key.
If here stood Judge and Jury … yet austere, free,
My father's Will, ungovernable, unshaken,
Would point his finger at the Judge—and he
Would say, ‘This woman's wealth shall not be taken.’
So in this box I feel it throbbing still,
That living entity, my father's Will.
And I still see, concealed in this black tin,
His pulsing energy that throbs within.
If from this box his Will can rise and save
And lift my body—oh, why not from the grave!
All that my father had he left to me.
His ghostly properties defy these locks.
His Will still works, although I lose the key.
If here stood Judge and Jury … yet austere, free,
My father's Will, ungovernable, unshaken,
Would point his finger at the Judge—and he
Would say, ‘This woman's wealth shall not be taken.’
So in this box I feel it throbbing still,
That living entity, my father's Will.
And I still see, concealed in this black tin,
His pulsing energy that throbs within.
If from this box his Will can rise and save
And lift my body—oh, why not from the grave!
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