It has been six months since they built the wall.
scraping the sky with all of its force and spite,
ripping jagged scars into the clouds.
Its massive shadow casts a gloom over all whom it detain.
It has been a year since they built the wall.
"Save me."
"You better hide."
"Let us out."
"Let them in"
The graffiti is sprawled and covered up, resprawled and recovered with each passing day.
The wall tells a story.
The story is a tragedy, a dull, slow-paced tragedy,
a story where all the characters you love slowly fade away, asleep or dead.
It has been five years since they built the wall.
It is as natural as the horizon,
as mundane as the office buildings.
The mere discussion of the wall has become taboo,
it is a part of life nobody chooses to mention.
State police patrolling daily and nightly.
Graffiti artists?
Shot on sight,
their bodies burned in the endless inferno.
It has been twenty years since they built the wall.
We seem to have forgotten it is there,
why it is there,
who constructed it in the first place.
It has been a hundred years since they built the wall.
It crumbles and cracks and creaks.
The people smile and laugh and live.
A few, a specific few wonder and dream,
'what is beyond that crumbling, cracking and creaking wall?"
