The Wall

Brick tiles skin in imprints.

Bloody and raw knuckles left behind,

refreshing anger stops and long sorrow christens.

The grout is what shifts brick after solid brick,

built with hands new and soft in the baking sun.

The light hits hard on this new wall,

drawing weeds ever straining.

Solid-seeming, meant for lasting,

developed holes nonetheless.

Eventually, more or less,

the wall comes down.

It has been painted,

a masterpiece of memory.

Are these memories of love

rose-colored, or are they hate-blackened

in the setting sun?

White-washed at the beginning,

now a city has been built around it and

this brick wall is a barely remembered alleyway,

your high school, one-time lover is this once-red wall.