As a child, I found room in boxes,

Four walls mounting into a firmness

Resembling my father’s hand.

Rays of light seep in between spaces,

As shadows loom and reappear from my sight.

But now, these once empty spaces

Only hold tattered clothes and naked crayons

Slowly fading into oblivion.

Their walls transformed into planks—

A barrier shielding light, where even

My shadow cannot hide in.

Outside the box, I have seen more light,

Painting my skin yellow and warm,

Diminishing my shadow.

As I dance with the wind, the boxes

Tumble down, corroding mercilessly

Under the nebulous blue skies.

Kristine Joy L. Dabbay

Well-conceived exhibit on the Rosary


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