Something stirs when the lid comes down—
not courage, something older in the blood,
a red and formless chrysalis below the ground,
where fear blooms inward from a husk.
The dark has weight, it presses like a thumb
on the softest spot behind the eye. The wood
breathes back whatever breathing you become—
spent, animal, and less than understood.
This is the oldest school. The buried seed
does not know spring has come, and does not care:
it simply will not rot. Below the creed,
below the flag, below the ruse—down where
the self goes blind and then begins to see:
the box was always there, young Jeremy.