The Jar

The Jar

I venture down into the old cellar
I’ve heard of the dangers,
The creaking boards stepping down
The musky smell of history
The cool, damp chill
Cobwebs and dust beautifully decorate;
With a deep breath
I almost forget why I venture,
This is not my first time down here
In my youth
I brought it for hiding;
Closing the cellar door
That far away crisp morning
I planned to never return
I was hardened and darkened
I had turned against it
Was it the war, the family, the books?
It is hard to say

There it was
Shelved amongst some books, tools, artifacts and covered in dust
My jar with a label on it
Upon the label is a word
In a strange tongue
Only my Creator and I know,
The word leaves you breathless yet pierces
Some call the word joy, passion, love, truth, pleasure
Poetry, art, beauty,
Others think the word to be a feeling
A sensation or knowledge that words cannot captivate,
Other’s say it’s the steward’s true name,
Whatever it is
It has been calling me
Haughty me
And luring me,
It is time to live fully again
I’ve come to fetch my jar,
And even to open it.