The Box

A solitary light dangles from the ceiling.
Laying motionless, unfeeling.
Grey is the existence.
No escape, defenseless.
What is up, is down.
What is down, is up.
A paradox.
A metal pox.
An itch behind the eye.
A bleeding in the mind.
Strictly speaking, this is hell.
Mindscape's leaking, I'm not well.
Count the corners: eight.
Count the seams: twelve.
Count the faces: nine.
Eight of these are not mine.
Two of these are not the walls.
My body breaks when it falls.
A solitary light dangles from the ceiling.
Laying motionless, unfeeling.
Grey is the existence.
No escape, defenseless.