Building blocks fall from Heaven,
Falling perfectly into place,
With the Blueprint,
That our maintenance man found on a mountaintop,
Thankfully preserved in a trashcan.
Stones shift from singular to cellular,
Building up the wall,
Between them and us.
Separating the Mother’s skin,
From singular to cellular.
By the grace of a philanthropic father,
The winds that let me taste,
The qualia of oceans on solid ground,
Can move me no more,
Shut out with thick steely skin.
I have been given the gift of imprisonment,
Cleverly disguised as the seduction of stillness,
But only eyes that cannot look are fooled,
And my sight is blind to lines,
That try to draw your attention away.
In the beginning,
We were only spoken to of lines,
Far from above in the realm of abstraction.
The Satanic sympathizers of that Cartographers Cult,
Doing God’s work in the shadows,
After our eternity spent learning to pick the locks,
The map-makers make ritual sacrifices out of Her flesh,
Cutting deep into Her pain;
One part the primal pride of making a mark,
Two parts fear of the frontier.
By the light of midnight,
They divide into halves,
All of the edges of our sphere,
Unable to see their folly through the blind hope,
Thanks to the eclipsing walls of heavenly heights.
Just as there are linear line-layers,
Searching to fit the circle around the globe,
There are those of us dedicated to the anti-construction industry,
Chiselling reminders to remembers through holes-in-The-Wall,
That ours is borrowed time by definition,
Inching closer to the moment,
When our Mother serves us with the eviction notice,
And returns herself from the cellular to the singular.