it's a lactose sort of fate.

when we were young
the world was made of shapes
and now it's walls.
for better or worse.
to scale or construct.
and less color than the circles
the rectangles and the stars
to fit right, this world's not ours.
when we grow up
we sell it with our crayons
those choke-safe happy little beads
to a world that lost the heart to them down--
these walls that send us on our merry way
to find our cheese.