Ashes and Old Gods

platinum and rose-gold, it sits on the pillar, the light of a hundred thousand candles reflecting, glittering, blinding across the jewel-encrusted lid

"open the box" the Voices whisper, a Greek chorus in the shadows

"i dare not" i whisper softly in return

"is it not lovely?" they ask.  "does it not glimmer and shine so prettily?"

"it does"

"are it's lines, so clean and smooth and pure, not pleasing to the eye?"

"they are"

"open the box" they whisper, pleading, coaxing

"i dare not"

"can you not smell the spices?  the incense?"

i can, and it smells of myrrh and clove, of frankincense and rosemary, of lilies and yew

"open the box" they whisper, cajoling, wheedling

"i dare not"

"inside is comfort and safety...inside is security and plenty...inside is warmth and light and love and acclaim and belonging..."

i know this box. this is the pretty poison, the box of false promises and pipe dreams.  this is the beautiful, perfumed nightmare, lined with arsenic and the ashes of old, dead gods, and oh it is death to touch...

"open the box"

this box has a name and it is madness to speak, and so once more i whisper to the sweet, everlasting voices and hope that this time, maybe, they will be still

"i dare not"