In a box

**I wrote this to mess with all kinds of rules. Tell me if you get it~
And if you don't.

In a box

In a box
one can see,
one wall, two wall, and even three;
up above is blocked, clogged, and drab:
white walls, cracked and bland.

They're all ready for shipment
to the designated homes;
matched by eyes, cheeks, and nose;
to be quartered, processed, and closed.

Inserted with a chip,
that dictates what they do,
all the while, specimens roam with no clue.
They control what to eat, sleep, and wake
and say when to be stalwart, spontaneous, and fake.

In a box
they can see,
themselves, one man, two men, and three.
And all around them is blocked, clogged, and drab;
white prison cells, cracked and bland.

But is it ironic,
when you finally know,
out of the box is where you choose not to go?
To splash color upon the walls is unjust and wrong,
when the masses stifle your voice and song.

So then it becomes so obvious and real,
your soul is their sweet nectar to steal.
And now you're forced to do naught but submit,
when they lock you in labyrinth and crypt.

And then in the box
you can see,
one wall, two wall, and even three.
Up above is blocked, clogged, and drab.
Just outside the walls I am watching you,
clawing at the tapestry.