Jericho

There are stains on the

wall

signs of my strain

of blood on stone –

my own

smeared red

from soft hands and

blistered fingers

it lingers

cracked from the impact

of my skull

bone split on granite

thoughts spit from the

fissure

quivering portraits of

dead-ended

imagination

revelations half-formed

stillborn

faded down and

weather-worn

I'm torn upon the rock

shorn on old mortar

I beat bricks with my fists

break my wrists

and bruise my shoulders

when I move it follows me

swallows the sun

with a shadow

longer than it is tall

wider than it is thick

a trick of the light and

a prick to the soul

I am not whole

time takes its toll and

my mind decays

it frays

the tapestry unravels

the paintings lose luster

I muster my strength

yet cannot climb

my feet are slit on grit

and grime

the wall is slick

with my own sweat

wet with wasted effort

ever present

blocking my ascent

dissent pours out

of my own throat

I gloat on things

that have been wrote

which won't be smote

won't be beaten

won't be choked nor

suffocated

I will be liberated

by my own power

upon some hour

until then

as day fades to dusk

I cut my palms and

paint the wall

knowing one day

it will fall