Love Letters In A Vault Poem by Max Reif

Love letters in a vault,
never delivered,
never even written.

Beneath the maze,
the shattered mirror image,
down the rabbit-hole,

into the false self.
My personality
was just a band-aid
over a black abyss
where great beasts did battle.

Beneath it all, a tiny baby
crouches in the shadow of the beasts.
That is who I am,
not this mouth
that births broad rivers of words,

not even this pen.
Can this pen
voice the cries
of a child who cannot speak?

Can the pen
adopt the child?
Find him a home,
find him trust?

The child can’t trust,
he kneels in the shadows
where the great beasts roar,

how will his voice ever be heard
from down that well

through the false light
refracted off shattered shards of self,

up through the many voices,
voices of steel,
voices of glass,
voices of water,
voices of stone,
voices of cities?

The voice of a child’s heart
is a faint strain,
pleading