Painter's box of colours

That bond of ancient secrets was now broken.
with a thousand voices screaming in my head,
and another hundred howling in this heart;
I fell to digging with these urgent hands
the earth was old and cold, filled with grief.

I kept clawing until there was no more to dig.
There as I had left it, but for mud and scuffing.
A painter's box of colors, in my mother's scarf.
As I gazed upon this forgotten box of dreams,
a cellist drew a mournful wail across my heart.