The Wall

My life
is like a window

The frame
handcrafted, ornate
beautiful, gilded

The view
dead, dull
bleak, black
consistent.
A large brick wall
not letting even the smallest of green creep through
the maroon of the bricks looking more of a gray
but still after years of decay is standing tall
scarred just by the blood of my knuckles against it
from my many punches it has effortlessly blocked

The hammer
lies still on the golden ledge
metallic head holding a strange, engrossing beauty of its own
granted with the power to free me from my fortress
with just a touch'

but I can not do it
the wall is all I know.





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