Pandora's Box

If a woman lives
in a box, unseen,
is she alive or dead,
or both?
The theory strains,
but holds.

"We die one day at a time," he said.
But in these self-destructive days
I've cranked the treadmill up.

When hazy hopes rise
only to dissolve
to dust and hookah rings,
the caterpillar's query
echoes into unlit corners.
"Who are you?" lifts and bends.
My answer, tried,
goes screaming into silence.

I grasp at love,
and catch a hold,
but find my hands keep
wringing till it's dry
and crumbles into bits.

Quixote calls--
I run at walls
and find a fence
of thorns beneath.

I cannot fix
what I destroy.
With bloodied hands
I try again,
but cannot smash
the splinters into place.

Connection lost,
I'm down the rabbit hole again,
plummeting with arms flung wide
to drive the monster down.

I've shut Pandora's
cardboard box,
so kindly tape the flaps.

I may or may not be,
but still I wait.

You'll find me,
if you care to look,
sitting by the unlit fire,
stroking Schrodinger's cat.