The wall.

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I'M TALKING TO IT

Stone cold flurry.
Fitful, fearful, jerking.
Darkness envelops eyes
As Alice falls deeper
Out of touch
With this fabric
Upon which nomadic life pitched
Temporary tents of trust
And willingness.
Move on.....
Move on, you of the thirteen,
Wandering for forty centuries
Is more accurate.
Maybe consciousness is purgatory
A tense limbo of waiting
For revelation of life and time,
Still waiting,
Like students at semester's end.
I'm sorry
Apologies don't mean anything
To you anymore,
Innovation of the impossible
Doesn't much seem worth it.
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