Still not done, or even close. Some lines are just stopgaps at the moment. But that's what this place is for.

Chest on a Closet Shelf

Fingertips slip warily through shadows,
wafting dust to pale, expectant faces.
Just deny that what's found really matters.

Have you trusted hands to darkened places?
Sometimes you must, to seize the snake inside,
wafting dust to pale, expectant faces.

Stopped by closed eyes, all thoughts swirl back to mind;
cobwebbed hands reach sightless into boxes—
sometimes you must, to seize the snake inside.

Once found, will you have the key that locked it?
You thought you'd never need again, but now
cobwebbed hands reach sightless into boxes.

Chests long abandoned may have rotted through
and ceased to guard the precious things that once
you thought you'd never need again, but now

without a heart, you'll never have a chance.
Fingertips slip warily through shadows,
an imperfect, desolate, trembling dance.
Just deny that what's found really matters.