Box-shaped

Last night in this room
And i want to write poetry on the walls
In thick acid that will eat
Through the paint and concrete
To the bloody entrails of constructed debris

Stripping off the paintings and stars
There is little left but white nothingness
A box that could belong to anyone
House any concave seeker
Any bewildered runaway in search of home

Having cried and dreamed and hid
Between these walls and deeper still
Within the floating promises of friends
And self to forge a path untrampled
I have grown and bloomed and also died
As all living things are apt to do

At least as seasons come and pass
It has also kept despair and anger in
As easily as it had kept the world outside
Not breaking down through gushing storms
Or melthing into fumes beneath the sweltring sun

A soldier yet unsure of the destiny of his soul
If he was to keep safe or keep guard
To build a better me or take it all apart
I still felt safe and uncomparably myself
Knowing the end to this reprieve is near enough