Companion Cube Poem by Singer Joy

Beneath the barren staircase stood
A box of metal, plain.
The curious reader questions 'Would
But what, this box, contain? '
In simple truth,
None can ordain,
Or none that, at least, should.

In darkness, through the night and day,
And corresponding seasons,
Would the small container lay,
Though none could find its reason.
One could inquire,
But no treason
An answer should relay.

With fingers, prodding and rude
They molest our neglected box;
With minds that, human, misconstrued
Their need of its inward stocks.
For lack of hinges,
And lack of locks,
It remained staunchly glued.

No tool would break or key open,
Though many have been tried.
There's little room for trifling hopes when
Refused it to be pried.
Yet all forgot
When protests cried
Were seldom, if e'er spoken.

And now my small receptacle
That once held all my work
Is an enigmatic spectacle
For simple minds to irk.
I'll still not tell,
But I'll not shirk,
Though answers be deflectable.

How like me, in my box of pine
Remains my legacy.
That ancient, rusty key of mine
Is safely buried with me.
Here we'll remain,
Inanimately,
Forever apart and entwined.