The room empty and big where she sit on the floor
Small wooden boxes strewn from her feet to the door
Intimately they are tagged, small engraftment done in gold
Each holding some of her life, in the way it did unfold
Introspection has her writing comments on the lid
Big black letters confirming her opinion on how she did
Now she has the marriage box heavily on her lap
She can hear the little sandglass running as on tap
Pondering the box she looks at it and grins
Sometimes there is just no comment except maybe for the word sins
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