In a small, dark room built to collect
Dust, not a waft of fresh air
Could come through it to stir
All the dry decay. To be fair,
The drapes over the windows
So heavy and thick hung,
That the stillness forgot
They were there, and it sung
Of nothing but corners and walls
And a brown carpet beat flat
By two lonesome feet which found
Themselves lost at each step. That
Was all they'd known since they first
Left the child outside. She's dead now,
I suppose, unless her aged body
Might be changed back somehow.
Could it be that she might run
To the old, wide corners, that she might
Inspect those things that always shine
In her eager eyes? I recall with fright
That vice which killed her, that curiosity
Which first moved her hand toward the door
Of that hideous box. And so she was lost.
So I doubt that she'll laugh anymore.
These eyes, having seen all there seems to be,
Think they've found the meaning of life,
Yet they can't even find the meaning
Of the box. It's a double-edged knife
Which preaches a religion of certainty
While alientating itself from the light
That, lying outside, it can't immediately see.

Oh, that these drapes might collapse
And let the light come flooding in!
Oh, that these windows would fly off
Their hinges and so enter the wind!
Oh, that these feet would tread a new path,
Leaping in faith and recalling at last
The reason why this tired old sight
Never stopped looking for the light.
Oh, that such might happen, but I doubt
That it will... save for help without.