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.
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.)