In this white box sits only a bed.
�Neath this black sheet hides only a boy.
Above this box, the clouds creep by,
Slow like jelly and sweet like wine.
The ground outside is harsh and mean.
Unforgiving to those with wings.
There is no door to let life in.
No birds may sing through windows open.
He�s trapped inside these tragic walls,
Unaware of the alcoholic clouds
And the infinite punishment of the ground.
For his own good, he can�t leave:
Confined to the consistency of repeat.
Spontaneous actions can give him a will.
He may find a cause and want to rebel.
He finds the sun much too hot,
But lifts up the sheets.
To reveal the spots
Where his eyes used to see.