What’s the point of flinging words
At the walls that block admittance
A syllable is not a key
And letters not a hammer

A wounded arm and crippled hand
Cannot protect the fingers
Tracing lines of liquid crimson
Across the concrete bulwark

Echos fill the silent air
With whispers of negation
Floating on the trembling breeze
That wafts away all hope of entry.
ljm