Nobody lives upstairs.
A small purple cube,
on a huge, cozy bed,
it rests there.

Locked with a thousand keys,
a forgotten password,
rusted threads of steel
to make sure that
no one can get inside.

From that hidden place
the strange sounds slip out.

A formless entity that seems
to be alive,
to never go out,
is trapped for decades.
  
A small purple box
needs to be protected
from collapse,
by an inner yellow eye
so it doesn’t blink,
but watches to keep its secrets.

What is inside?
Envy,
jealousy,
desire,
or another force?

Should I name it aloud?
To understand,
to make real
the lost origin
of the human self?