Letting the Blues Speak


Sometimes I stare at a blank wall,

I mean I really do, could actually describe the texture,

cold and sort of metallic gray with a never ending mass,

invisible to the eye,

your eyes of course.

Those of you that walk around me,

seem able to walk right through, and when on the other side,

take a moment to glance back,

to see if I might be coming along,

might be joining you,

might have forgotten that you just walked directly through

my steel wall of agony,

that piece of reality, my eyes, how easily it reappears.


I’m occasionally drawn directly to the girth of the wall,

just a sort of daily hello,

a greeting to an old friend.

We all know about the nemesis that became our

greatest advocate when push came to …

ah you know I cannot do that.

This wall isn’t going to move,

sedentary and powerful to the eye,

that is,

my eye of course.

you are unable to see it nor am I willing to let you inside.

Perhaps if I did that the illusion would crumble away silent,

sort of like that long process of erosion,

a chalky substance that if you pick at it, grows further,

breaks away, like the pock holes of your garage cement.

Those holes are real, you can see them, step on them,

see moisture gather inside cracks on a rainy afternoon.


This wall stays pretty static, whenever the facade visits, well,

that security of its massive presence surely remains.


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