Lacquered

In the old photo, on the table’s edge,

A box sat there, a midnight pledge.

Its surface gleamed, a perfect sphere,

Reflecting back what wasn't here.

No grain of wood, no natural flaw,

Just polish held by unseen law.

So smooth and deep, it seemed to lie,

A polished, silent, watchful eye.

It held the light, but gave no heat,

A surface absolute and neat.

What did it hide, or did it keep?

A secret buried, far too deep.