A wall makes no sound. It is built with brick
made from silenced hands; hands that don't question
four corners of a room without windows,
hands that forget warmth from the exploding
sun, hands not washed in the mutable sea.
Builders of silence lose their tongues. Some see
the wall as a scar. Scar tisue layers
surround what they build, what they cannot touch,
what they can't ask for help to deconstruct.
Only the living feel remorse. Rain
bounces off the wall into opened mouths.
Stones, pieces of glass, broken pipe battle
each ossified layer. Crumbling, the wall
concedes defeat against organized words.
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1 comment:
Thanks for writing this.
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