Photo by Henry & Co. on Unsplash
Yes, I’d unwind the clock. I’d take us back
twelve years ago before the wounds were cut
so deep into our skin, the sad attack
that slammed the doors between us ever shut.
I should have bent the bolts, not set them true,
or left a crack in wood or solid wall.
Our oxygen is gone. My skin gone blue
and we die split–forever and for all.
The wounds will heal–or so the poets say
and we will find some beauty in this loss.
We shall endure to bleed another day,
our grief as natural as a toxic moss.
The door is not a door. It’s solid, firm.
And I am left to wander, wonder, squirm.
Our Wall