by Nick Gisburne
Her eyes are only inches from the box.
She scans the circles, dusky, deeply etched,
Bewildered by the rapid, rhythmic knocks,
Which quicken as her fingers shake, outstretched.
Relentless repetitions, waves of sound,
Reverberating echoes round the room,
Provoke emotions fearful and profound,
A spiral of delight, despair, and doom.
A simple touch evaporates the lock;
The cypher of the circles disappears.
Recoiling at the sight inside, the shock,
She flinches as a sound assaults her ears.
Two screams of joy, enough to wake the dead.
Two sweaty fairies, banging on a bed.
