The Shrinking Room

When the baby stretched his arms out,

to the ceiling and the floor 

The room’s locked doors were far away, 

the corners of the room still unexplored

And light would pour through window panes 

and puppet shadows would fly.

As he grew, his arms less stubby, 

and his legs stretching out, he moved about.

His room had gotten smaller. 

The locked door was closer now, 

he was taller, the ceiling shorter, 

the corners of the floor, no longer unexplored

but seen and conquered. 

And less light soaked into the room, the darkness taking over. 

And every time he closed and opened his eyes

The walls would shrink and the floor would cry out, 

being swallowed up and never spat out. 

The window fell down, to reveal just black, 

and light left without gold dust trail to lead it back.

The locked door of the room was pushed against his face 

and the four walls crushed his body.
He couldn’t breath, move, talk, laugh, explore.
There was nothing and nobody.

He knew how many dents were on the left and right

He knew how long it took for the moon to pass over head, over night.

He knew his voice would echo and how many times

He knew the shadows’ names and personas and starsigns. 

He knew it all. Explored it all. Faced it all. And understood it all. 

Yet this door is still closed, 

and the walls are still closing in.

The air is getting thin and dry, 

and the ceiling coming further down crushing him.

The door will unlock from the outside

Or he will break it down. 

He just needs the strength to plough 

his fist into the walls

that has kept him since forever.