I hear the news reporter...

I hear the news reporter breathe behind the brick walls, I listen.

Let every builder know that the house has not tumbled down and thus;

I can live here; can do everything except, perhaps, leave.

There are doors to every birdcage; I see the dents in brick walls like

the trunks of trees. No storm nor season has entered on me yet;

cold simply permeates the cliffside over time.

I am no more a person than a heartbeat. I let fall the future breakage.

The cement lays steady and crumbles to the future. I let society age and age and

Protect myself in my wretched bedroom.

Childhood has given you gifts; loneliness and art. To neglect them is to neglect a call.

Do not heed the sturdiness of walls; that which crash and burn

and are the very evidence of your careful foundations.

The Trojans trick you. The Greeks were good at arts and crafts,

And built a mirror; knew the mighty are terrified of their power,

The bold and brash build a wall; empires fall.

Only art remains preserved.