Each hurt, a stone; each imperfection,

mortar for the walls. They rise up

like Babel, to the sky, surrounding

my heart like barbed wire fences.

 

I pile on more mortar, lug more stones;

I try to make a garden out of prison walls.

This stone facade is me–it’s not! but

here I am alone inside my Jericho.

 

The raindrops fall like cannonballs,

breaking down the walls. They crumble,

like crackers underfoot. My stronghold

decimated, I stand vulnerable yet free.

 

The walls masquerading as safety,

really a cage. It wasn’t me;

the light shines better through

a broken wall, anyway.

 

My Jericho

© Whitney L. Schwartz 2015

As seen in The Cresset magazine, Vol. 78, No. 4, Easter 2015