Inside the Crimson Shed

I’m at the entrance of grief where even nightmares weep, children fit in boxes stacked until there’s no air in the shed. The guardians of this crime are the children of the killers. May or may they not know what their parents did ages ago, still singing near the door. The shed hides unstoppable music boxes, these guardians hear music they afford to ignore, if they know, if they know, why do they still protect unethical maps? These guide us to anger, reject difference, fallen repetition, fail to grasp the repercussion of letting our nightmares creep into a becoming reality. It seems logical to stack boxes, it begins to be reasonable to hear music if there are boxes, it is proper to fill a shed if it’s in a vacuum of morality, slowly children fit standard boxes. If once no one was there, how can children be there? It’s a vacuumed space. The dead cease to exist. Logic is twisted until the unthinkable is logic or lack of thereof, by then children outside the crimson shed don’t care. What matters is only themselves, even the nightmare weeps when a child stops caring about other children, becoming the next killer in a sequential repetition that doesn’t accept difference by their pace. Today there’s a shed, if this continues the next generation of children will need something larger than life itself, not even a warehouse could fill the grief of generations being stacked inside music boxes playing The Unanswered Question. The double entendre of good will is that for what one considers ill will, the other doesn’t in a battle of wills to define common sense. I’m at the entrance of grief, I see the children stacked inside boxes. I have spent a life trying to undo the script life has handed to me. I’m far from emptying the shed. If it’s not me, not you, the blood shed won’t stop, the historical order must be disbanded but the king in turn won’t change anything, realize that to become the child that takes those boxes and places them in the plazas where on Sunday they gather, open them so they can hear it play The Unanswered Question. Answers? Doesn’t matter. Too distant, so many too convenient. Common sense? Less. Folded. Awareness? Yes. Can you see? Consciousness? Patience heard. You are who I am. I am. We are the melody expanding the confines of a trapped mind as the role play of old scripts that sound rational begin to appear false as they are, have always been, as we realize it could have been me, not him, not her, otherwise inside a shed.