To avenge the banal opus,
in fiasco, the controller is assaulted,
numerous times, it is clicked,
only to find exhilaration.
Every face of the colored box is painted,
but, with a similar shade of poignancy,
boasting of some lachrymose issue.
Despair makes the headlines look fancy
and every page turns into a tissue.
Be it inside or outside the box,
to search happiness is not a cake-walk.
Liberation from an unendurable writhe
or is it our world stuck inside the box?
A thin screen between material and myth,
or is it just a mirror that stares back, I wonder?