a voice came from the living room
and echoed from its walls.
to hear it was weird
because the living room
had nobody in it at all.

the voice became dancing voices
in a song about a world
where humans were rooms,
and their furniture choices
were living their own separate lives.

although, separate, they'd never survive;
they just differ to feel more alive.

they sang of the brainy bookcase,
with books full of thoughts and ideas,
who is enchanted with the desk
he sees reflected in the mirror.
and the mirror says, 'sorry, bookcase.
objects vary how they appear.
her computer wrote me a note
that she'll be busy now all year.'

the bookcase cries to the window,
who is his most consoling friend,
he beams, 'i know of division
between two lives coexistent,
it always works out in the end.'

so the bookcase, he stopped crying,
and then a book dropped from his shelf.
it fell open to a poem
about a family at home
where each one was finding themselves.

curious, he read every word
about a world full of mankind
who coexisted together
but detached themselves from their minds.
so in their mindless detachment
they would judge all things wrong or right,
while ignoring confrontation
and discussing things that were light.

the voice came from the living room
and echoed from its walls.
i hear it clearly
because the living room
is so full of life after all.

the voice became but a whisper
and the echoes were all gone
but the world unfurled
recognized that he missed her
and she wanted him in her life.

they were feigning just feeling alive
and that is what it is to survive.

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