In the confines of four corners
lies the imagination of a child
the imagination becomes endless, it's own universe expanding about
and it is in this instance that the world is missing out

Missing out on the endless possibilities to attain
self control on levels of infinite realities
to seek itself in a mirror and to create what isn't, plain
old Joe they said, they didn't offer a chance

the chance to lay the identity on the table, rather it has been prescribed
ascribed, it has become- no longer seeking but just a glance
at which once was, but isn't no more

the four corners have contracted inward
no more imagination to draw
from, what happens now is not serene
the dark is welcomed, the light exiled
there's not much to reconcile
what was once a rose bush, now just thorns
the days are rejected, the night adorned

when words fade and objects come alive
mysticism arrives to die