The Wall

I stay on this side of the wall,

Where the wind is sharp,

And the stars shine.

I go about my daily chores

With fervor and promptitude.  

Cutting the grass, clearing the fallen leaves,

And letting the vines hang on the wall. 

I am happily discontent. 

But, when it comes climbing over the vines, 

Precariously, to my own side of the wall, 

My precious side of the wall,

I become unhappily discontent. 

Lightning thunders with admonition,

And the morning light shuns me.

And before I can discern my malcontent,

I find I have broken down the wall.

I cast my blubbery eyes upon the broken pieces,
Hurl a few of them around,
At nothing in particular, and prostrate, 
Hoping for mercy. 
And when the snot dries up the next day,
I pick myself up from the stone cold floor,

Set brick upon brick,

And build the wall again.