Monkey in a Box


And we are all but monkeys on a pebble,

hurtling around a mediocre star among the Quintillion others

in an endless black sea bigger than our minds could ever comprehend,

but we still bite and bare our teeth, cringing and crushing the flesh of others between the rocks we call tools,

blood with green froth drain the colour from our eyes

and we become lost to the reality beyond the box we've buried ourselves in,

leaving only the small amount of concious thought,

we have to claw and scratch at the box,

only to succumb to its massive core,

pulling back the pages of time and losing our voice to the roaring cacophony of snores,

the atmosphere becomes saturated with waste,

the deepening haze takes over the small glimmer of hope once held upon the center occipital,

sending electronic tendrils to the forefront of the brain, urging us to move on,

even though others will not,

for a last attempt a hand, bloody, bruised, and broken to unrecognizable form,

reaches up to the dwindling light,

only to be overcome by the numbing feeling of nothing,

a paralysis of dreams,

sucking all colour of the future into the depths of a cosmic sepulcher,

"monkeys killing monkeys,

killing monkeys,

monkeys killing..."-- everything... 


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