They are given a box of faded crayons,
An outline of a picture;
Given all the freedom within a stencil,
Told not to colour out of the lines
They are up before the sun;
A weight upon their slumped shoulders,
As they learn to think inside a concrete box,
And trained to look forward
They hang their heads low,
Bowed towards open books;
Their eyes, underlined with shadows,
Look towards a brighter future
They stare up at the metal-scraped sky
And begin to climb upwards,
In search of a convenient deity,
A higher being than themselves
They reach the lonely peak,
Where their childhood dreams converged,
See nothing but a pretty view
And nowhere to go but down.
