Ah! There lies THE wall
with its mad scribbles that cannot be made out.
I have come to it at last.
The bricks look worn, chipped in places, raw,
where a multitude of heads must have paid their obeisance
brandishing hopes of a return gift.
The elixir of literary immortality.
I can see ink stains, the faint impression of a palm even,
made in desperation no doubt…
Looking for that break in its solidity,
in its sheer opaqueness,
for that weak spot that will make it crumble..
fall away like so much dust
I have been here for hours, weeks,
staring at its crumbling façade,
its sheer unbreakable-ness.
I have offered it my blood, the sweat of my brow,
the food from my mouth,
anything, anything to decipher the writing on that wall,
to watch it crumble and fall.
Anything, anything at all.