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.
© Whitney L. Schwartz 2015
As seen in The Cresset magazine, Vol. 78, No. 4, Easter 2015