19 November, 2012


Bricks filled with dust, covered in remembrances,
are piled upon one another with violence, haphazardly.
The gruel that sticks between them is hot, with red
boiled dirt seeping into crevices of concrete and gray matter.

Its sadness is at first a deep indigo color, spilling between
cracks left open, painstakingly mocking the walls that
try to keep it from pouring out, dyeing everything it touches
with sorrow and unanswered questions and revolutions.

The structure rises, bending to the will of the wind
and its own weight, suffering with gravitational burden.
It grows slowly sometimes, with less bricks needed for shelter,
but sometimes gains exponential mass in accordance to need.

The pulp, whose anger and disappointment aches to be
contained by the concrete being hoisted up around it, thins
and spreads through tunnels and nooks, changing direction and
adding rooms and layers that need attention but less protections.

Matching the shifting weight and temperature of what is inside,
the walls of dust and hardened dirt foil around, using ancient
equations to resist breaking design and gain efficiency for
control, neatness, and an understanding of the space inside.

Its contents slowly cool, turning rosy and soft, no longer
fueled by such immediate tempers, and these bricks that have
been piled up to the zenith are strong, maintaining the feelings
that have changed color and taste, softening their intensity.

Layers of bricks, both upwards and laterally, create a
labyrinth, one that cannot be explored but with a patient guide.
The fractal, patterned, heavy and containing, manages to
divide the colored themes lost inside, to be measured later on.

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