The wall: A poem 

How can I tell the story of the wall I sense, 

that I constantly come up against 

It is like a persistent fog, and dense 

It shuts out my every sentence 

I feel like an embryo in a hostile womb 

A living person buried in a granite tomb 

I have no contingencies against its subtle violence 

Its violence is reciprocated by my silence 

It is mobile; it follows me on the street 

It closets me from everyone I greet 

I feel it is on omnipresent wheels, 

in my shower and in my meals 

It is in my face and on my heels 

I feel recklessly alienated, but with lips sealed 

I can only swallow my consternation 

against the wall of my reservations