Walls

Walls have been forever,
first buried in solo chunks
throughout earth and sea,

waiting for gathering hands
to puzzle them together
in zippered tracks.

And some, impatient
for their exhumation,
rise from the depths

in grand protuberance,
determined as gravestone.

There is something so proud
about a well-built wall,

the caulk and pitch
sealing cracks and fissures,

the proud cast
of silhouette and shroud,

a dare to enter,
shield of stone,

the landscape scar,
war stitch,
monument to loneliness.

How carefully
I’ve placed my rocks,
my dirt clogged

hands testament to
those left buried,
those plucked from hiding,
even those crawling uninvited

like slugs from blackened soil
to enlist in my defense.

My glorious manifesto
shadows grounds
littered with arrows
broken spears

traces of thwarted attack.

The cupid army cometh,
will you place your arrow
in my hand
or in my heart?