The wall, the place to be…a spectator to
times captured in frames, cracked glass covers,
smiles twitched the wrong way at the ends,
fingers crossed, men double crossed.
Ticking past offers a glimmer of hope,
its face constantly being smothered with a chalk,
the one used to write on slates,
and can be dusted off at one’s own whim,
offering the swords the opportunity
to sweep the dust off,
forth and back, forth and back,
of histories of time, of destiny.
There, yet not.
Done, is not.
A little step forward, the path ambiguous,
two steps back, past captured entirely.
Illusions galore, a menacing situation to be,
haunted by things that ought not to be.