The Box
Sentences dripping with meaning, we sit,
Foetal in a blissfully repetitive equation,
Extinguished stumps of trees taking brief roots
On a plastic surface a meteor’s distance above;
A flood of harmony resumes under the clinical glow of misspent youth.
Condensation condescends from dull walls
Saturated with dim impressionable images,
Ideas shaped to a teardrop’s curve leaking
From cloud-like minds to dry tongues in a leaden cavalcade;
Thus everything means anything insightful anymore.
We ascend in drowsy downpour of precise procedure,
Ending this sodden epoch for the molten notes
And clean ceiling-clung starlight of a place beyond The Box.
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