Walls

They did not build these walls to hold You

You built them

Day-to-decades

Which came suddenly like rain clouds

Passing over mountaintops

You look up

realizing, it is not too late.

You are down, here,

But not out.

Time, nary a stranger,

Beckons You to stagger back into Your corner

Gazing into the eyes of strangers

Who say - no, the liars guarantee - they are Your corner men

You ask, "What round is this?"

One mumbles an impressive something

unclear like fog in the valley.

Did it not sound like He said "the end?"

No choice, now.

Preference was the luxury of last night's Porterhouse,

or how You boxed this bout early on.

Yours is only to elevate your body

another once-more time (another once-more time)

Rising not to tarry with sport,

rather, pug-has-become-fight

off the stool, survival is outlying from the stench of beer

and the fragrance of ringside perfume

You cannot even hear the masses screaming your name -

Your name! Remember your name?

As these catcallers need Your resurrection

Even more than You.

Thrust it into center ring

Flail and swing, You, with the faith of a nun. Beads under leather, because there is nothing except faith.

You believe because the lack of belief is that bell ringing

Signaling another end,

Death.

Mute it, for now, at least.

It is over.

They file out, saliva dripping off their chins

as spectators pretense empathy.

You may have won

Or . . .

Haven't you noticed the taste of blood

in Your mouth in both conquest

and as mere contender?

Forget stopping to smell the flowers, consider eating them.

Like the timid rabbits and rising meek.

Because that same bloody flavor lingers on the tongue

Of tigers and under-dogs.

These walls seem high, yet,

You, so tiny, feel small.

No.

You can, You must scale brick and mortar

as You awaken from this illusion

Realizing one breath

is not Your last breath

So You use it like a gentle wolf

to blow away bewilderment and these walls

of capture, confusion and carnivorous capitulation

- blown away . . .

like grounded leaves in changing seasons,

Then what,

with the rest of your days?