The Box

 

There is a box. Brown. Bare. Blocked. Lifeless.

There is a Life. Sullen. Empty. Boxed from reality.

 

Imagination whispers gently on the leaves of dreams

As dew on the freshness of spring.

Whats in the box? Could be anything. But nothing unless opened.

Whats in the life? So little without imagination.

 

And to come out of such and live on the waves of dreams,

Too romantic,

Too daring for most.

Defiant to constrictions of the normal.

Obedient and excited by the surreal and obscure.

 

Outside the box lives color. Beauty. perfection. Life.

Inside, the very mess that causes all of human strife.