This Box of Mine

In a box of my own making, I've no windows built to let in light
Should this box of mine start shaking, the world itself seems it may soon go dark
Were I to open this box sublime, exposing myself to a world of sight
Would I see little but hate and crime, or enough pleasant things to leave a mark?

In a box of my own design, a box of decaf and back-lit screens
Ordered itinerary line by line, the congregation of wooden faces
Were I to open this box hollow, witness unknown gains by less known means
Would that time once more should begin to flow, could I see the rut and its carved out traces?

In a box of my own invention, my speech determined by knowledge and glue
The limitations of education, the mind will struggle for what to convey
Were I to open this box binding, my supply of words turns to many from few
Could I create a world entwining, a string of ideas with something to say?

In this box of my own desire, a place of comfort and all that I know
The world I know and all I admire, the place that defines the shapes I see
Were I to open this box integral, ideas losing their root to grow
Would those thoughts emerged be viable, or does one need a box before they are free?