The cardboard is cold, as I kick, punch and struggle to get out, but there is no chance, as a bag protects me from any damage. The smell of plastic, the darkness of these four square walls, sometimes earthquakes smash my body back and forth. Will I ever be taken out, to know freedom again. Operated on, stitched up, the vital organs have been removed, left with nothing, I am like a bandaged zombie. Packaged, boxed up, an assembly line of clones just like me, all waiting to someday rise again. And when that day arrives, I hope to stand on an open space, not knowing where I am, but feeling the power of your love. Unless, I suffer from the worst of all fates, to be imprisoned NRFB.