The bottle rolls off the table, heavy,
three dimensions hold its hollow ache.
The stars above seem like pinholes,
but we name them, chain their fire.
Cages built by minds with boundaries,
walls of thought, brick by brick.
Try to step higher into the ceiling,
but everything falls into flat lines.
The fourth is a whisper we won\'t hear,
a shadow flickering against drunk walls.
We claw for something past the void,
but our hands grab nothing, just vapor.
Three doors wide, we cannot walk past,
our lives just circles drawn in dirt.
What waits beyond has no angles,
no form we’d recognize, or accept.