Cranium Constraint

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If I ever were to walk the halls of a brick-framed mind,
I would stare in astonishment at the coarsely alluring organization.
Just line after gray cement line
With a fading rich red block in between
Creating an enclosing, restrictive scene.
I would take one brick out,
Trace its insides with the tip of my bit-on index finger
And see if I can decode the inverse braille of another being
(A savagely confined being nonetheless,
But still a being).

I would wonder whose hands hinted,
Then strongly suggested,
And then outright requested
That this sturdy, ancient wall was to be built from the ground up.
Was it a parent stuck in the quicksand of yesteryear?
Was it a repulsion to a parents rocketing so high above —
Just too damn high above —
That quicksand of yesteryear?
Or a rebellion?
That would be the question.
(Then again,
No one can rebel without uniting with rebels
And no one can unite without rebelling against the disunited,
So there really is no definitive answer.)

I would survive the stroll down the brick-framed mind
With a story or two to tell
And a few jokes to crack or attempt at.
I’d tell everyone I know about what it’s like in there.
How I could taste the dry air on my already drenched tongue.
How I could smell the mildew of older eras so strongly,
My asthma started to blow pain into my lungs.
How I could hear the chants of a gray time
Jonathan Edwards would have revered in.
(But I tend to exaggerate with my wet tongue,
Leaving broken fragments and half-fabrications as my spittle.
But I solemnly swear on all that is sacred to only myself,
I kept myself from observing with my rust-colored eyeglasses.)


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