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.