Inside a Box

Life is a box, and people think inside of it. 

Each wall of the box is made of a different material. 
Water, Steel, Pebble, Sand, Air, and Paper.

Don't as me how, I have no Earthly idea.
I'm only a person, and am therefore limited to the inside of the box.

Perhaps, the box was underwater, slowly drifting into the abyss, drowning the contents.

Is that why I cannot breathe?

Perhaps the box was made in a metal factory by laborous blank faces,

Humans who have never and will never know the benefits of a name. 

Maybe the box was pieced together in a new land with new creatures and new ideas,

Gathered on the quarries and fields of exploration.

On the other hand, the box might have slipped onto the beach,

Loved but soon forgotten by it's owner, never to return to the comforts of care. 

Could the box possibly have fallen from the sky, like an answered prayer?

Soaring through the air, did the wind become eternally threaded into the box?

Or was the box simply folded by a pair of tiny soft hands

Carefully sealing its creases, so as to make sure it was safe?

No matter, I am only human

I cannot answer, for I am limited to the inside of the box.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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