Fragments of a life built from nothing
Gathered in a pile at the doorstep
Brick by brick the walls are put up around them
Happy to sit at the center and stare at the pieces
All breathing as one in a place of honor
Next door to a carbon copy who basks in the same
Glory to the collector, the placer, the puzzle king
Who fits all together, a weaver to rival Fate
Honor to those who inhabit a place where none worship
Where crystal facets hold the dim light of reflections
Caught between two opposing mirrors
Multiply, proliferate, conceive and construct
Consume and destroy to find new ways of meaning
This is a place where truth is an empty hand
Eyes that see nothing, a mouth that cannot speak
Limbs that only dream of movement
But which know they cannot live beyond the wall
Hands filled with those light-soaked fragments
Afraid to drop them in case they break
Only if one solemn day of desperation dawns
If those hands are emptied and used to beat at the wall
Will they find that it was always made of paper

Image from Pixabay – Couldn’t find the original photographer’s name