I hear the news reporter...
I hear the news reporter breathe behind the brick walls, I listen.
Let every builder know that the house has not tumbled down and thus;
I can live here; can do everything except, perhaps, leave.
There are doors to every birdcage; I see the dents in brick walls like
the trunks of trees. No storm nor season has entered on me yet;
cold simply permeates the cliffside over time.
I am no more a person than a heartbeat. I let fall the future breakage.
The cement lays steady and crumbles to the future. I let society age and age and
Protect myself in my wretched bedroom.
Childhood has given you gifts; loneliness and art. To neglect them is to neglect a call.
Do not heed the sturdiness of walls; that which crash and burn
and are the very evidence of your careful foundations.
The Trojans trick you. The Greeks were good at arts and crafts,
And built a mirror; knew the mighty are terrified of their power,
The bold and brash build a wall; empires fall.
Only art remains preserved.