My quill set for the page,

Yet my mind’s eye is upstaged,

Betwixt them sits a wall,

But here no war shall be waged,



I search for beauty and pathos,

Yet my aperture gathers only stone,

If the barrier were to give itself kudos,

For having left my page all alone



But to think of the possibility,

That the wall itself but not a writer,

That the curvature of the laden brick,

Creates a paradox of the block.