Walled by C Fausto Cabrera
I drag a calloused finger along a smooth
white washed wall in the prison yard.
Glistening oil-based paint covers
gritty crushed rock compressed
into heavy cinder blocks surrounded
By crusted mortar reinforced
with rods of re-bar, black iron ore
molten bright orange, shaped and cooled.
There is an age one passes
like a highway mile marker,
When innocence breathes
its last. Colors fade
in the rain drops of onus
Question peel like lead paint chips,
lost calendar pages.
Answers click with clock hands
trying to grasp others thoughts.
I run a weary finger across this wall,
it sinks deep, creating waves,
a speeding boat in the ocean.
All of this will, all of this work,
all of these elements fused by ideas,
manipulated intentions of entitled will
combining forces against evil,
like caped superheroes or judges.
Walls erected to separate morality through
the righteous decrees of Kings and Priests,
ornamented with silver and gold.
Had they heard the whisper of God
giving them the recipe
while they gathered ingredients,
extracting minerals to mold,
reinforcing their plans.
Animals fight over territory,
killing each other for survival
Air fronts collide and cause
elements to rip through land
without bias or respect
destroying what it may.
Fires rage through forests
and fields with ferocity
from lightning strikes
River waters carve canyons
through majestic mountains.
Yet none are labeled victim.
No culprits are called to court.
No punishment are enforced.
Choices stand strong in hindsight,
The review mirror of the righteous;
Decisions lay ahead, down a dim corridor
Behind oak doors locked by expectation,
Hiding the places that skew reflections cast
in the mirror of destiny’s cruel fate.
A flower in the field dances
onwisps of wind singing
far from paths,
far from speeding desires
gazed in reverence
toward the discourse
of natures blueprint of peace
grateful for the grace of survival,
dodging the harvest
of dirty hands seeking
a trophy for a table top.
I never seen
a flower dying of old age.