Hidden depths, a concealed Loch Ness
monstrous myths to lock the deep from guests
where I lie at rest, awaiting reanimation, and my lie's did the rest
for only one, maybe, deserves the honest confession of what's suppressed
A hidden package labelled with no address and that Pandora was just a test
an open chest is what was left, closed it with fables written in a chaotic mess
spilled stationary, white noise tells my vision echoing the static in which I am dressed
crackling a cackling witch to band aid the broken ribs, though I was left with less flesh
her true identity is but a guess, in blood she was blessed
and in blood I boxed all that wasn't faith bereft
buried it below, written with a cautionary tale and no address.