Bricked In

 

I imagine the rough rasp of brick
on my skin.
No, I feel the rough rasp of brick
on my skin.
Bricked in.
It depends on which way the wind
is blowing.
Because there are gaps that let in
the light.
And they let in wind too 
sometimes.
I crook my neck to the light that seeps
through gaps.
The Layer allows there to be air holes..
Light holes.
When the light is bright i search for
The Source.
Sometimes when the wind blows towards my wall I smell 
smoke and spring.
I look for loose bricks to push them out
like Jenga.
Occasionally the wall may be on the verge
of falling.
But The Layer will come and re-point 
the bricks
And light will be a pin prick, then breath
is short.
I resort to reading the same patterns over and over
again.
Then a vibration kicks out loose grout and 
light returns.
And I play with patterns in a different way not
right to left, more 
up and down, back to front, even, on good days,
diagonally,
and I almost see something else outside
the wall.

Always, almost.

◄ Only Human

Bubka ►

Comments

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Martin Elder

Thu 12th Nov 2015 15:57

This is a fantastic poem I love the way it works gathering hope only to have it dashed. It has a great rhythm

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