The box from whence I came

The box from whence I came
holds no more significance to a lifeless life.
A claustrophobic existence that endorses droning,
not my preference.
Sometimes, recollection drenches reality and ideology is mine.
Nostalgic vibes from a cast in a drawer throws the time machine in reverse.
Further than expected.
To a baptism in filth, two entities neither the wiser,
until the enclosure gives way and you get your first amaranth kiss.
Re-entry is your plea, but the torqoise beings usher this system of infernal riot.
A flashing spectator's time stamp, but a missing page in the ill-shaped logbook.
Untouched face, naive skin, the eye of the concentric congregation.
Only silence, then it fades to shade of my countenance and then to real.
Back to the drone.