Eleven O' clock rolls forward ever toward
your direction.
You, as I, am trapped behind a wall
that sways us away from a horrific site.
A site that wreaks of impurity
and would rid our minds of mental light.
Yet, you are astounded to see that I am not as you once thought,
and perhaps that dank mold has already
beseached my soul.
For not a wall could protect me.
No pain which would strike through my
skull could brace me.
When most vulnerable, when most disturbed,
that could not hold me back.
Yes, the eleven o' clock hour rolls on and
you write indiscriminately in denial of
words that prove to be true.