Hands On The Wall

My hand upon the wall feels cool, as brick pulls rough against my skin.

I lay upon a slab of cement, riddled with cracks and breaking rocks.

Above me a daddy long leg creeps up the wall.

Tracing a finger between each space I start a familiar race.

I’m running up an impossible labyrinth, with no chance of escape.

Up and over and up and over, waiting to fall down.

It all comes to a grinding halt, nearly out of my reach.

For I have snagged a finger tip, on white course brick.

-M.E. InkOwl


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