The Box

A line is drawn.
He needs another, a third, and a then a fourth.
Perfect, he observes, admiring what he’s created for himself.

Safety is assured.
He invites another in. Then a third and a fourth.
Splendid, he thinks, taking comfort in the right angles.

Air is sparse.
The molecules vanish; one, then a third and a fourth.
Still lovely, he imagines, not noticing the lack of movement.

Decay is near.
They want out. The first and then the next, and the fourth.
Still safe, he imagines, not seeing the illusion.

A last breath is drawn.
He opens his eyes, first one and then the other.
Alone, he finally sees, with confusion, the betrayal of those lines.