[the wall]
Bloody fists, newspaper clippings,
Cold stone pieces in
Museums and aristocrat’s houses
These are all that remain of The Wall.
Not true, say a silent many
Countless thousands starved, hungry, pitiful
Frightened, eyes in souls
Clamped tight so as not to let the
Hurt in.
It always gets in, though.
Through backdoors and trapdoors in our minds
So hard to plug all the leaks
Bullet-riddled as they are
By time and non-stop fear
