Optic Flow

I am drowning in red tape.

There lies a dark grey box,
with many tinier boxes inside.

Sometimes, they let me go home.
The wallpaper is peeling.
The children are crying.

Rarely, I go to the attic.
I put on a record from the 1930s.
Light ballroom music. 
A trumpet croons softly 
over the sway of a sleepy big band. 
The aged stylus mingles
with the dust 
and the warped sounds crackle warmly.
Sometimes it rains from the adhesive sky.
That gentleness quietly falls into the mix.
This is when I sit down and 
flow cascades verdoyant.
And I write. 
And I sing.
And I dream. 
And I rest.