Skylight in the Brick Tower

Condensed to a singularity that brings about an end to the attempts to escape and simultaneously redelivers the soul on the doorstep of hope, a chance to breathe slips in from the cold grasp that pushes down and pulls up. The walls we toss up to protect our ideas from the harsh winds and bitter glares of the Hyperionic watchman serve as a double-edge, stealing away from us our self-endowed freedom, so that we may have something to strive for and something to push against; we deprive ourselves of the chaos of all truths, but something puts air in-between the bricks; Some physical property of the universe works against our mortar and splits open the patched over lacunae that run in an oh-so-orderly fashion along the little cells of thought, building a network as it goes along, a network of perfect replication. Smooth are the bricks that punch back at our midnight frustration, gentle are their reminders of which hands spread the cement and which architect took it upon him and herself to build their solidified homes, and so blindingly deceptive is the sun, the one who we kept at our backs, with only trust in our ears at the sound of the screaming sizzle of the instant evaporation of the Ophanim tears, falling, and splashing, and disappearing.  The starlight creeps in, chips away at our protection from the winter’s icy tongue, breaks down the solid, certain solidarity that is found in a brick; broke it like an indigenous will, chiseled away with their teeth and their insults and spit up hate straight from the four corners of their heart, ate away at the stone with bile-soaked glances, clawed at it with talons that fit perfectly into eye sockets of children.  They broke down the door that we didn’t mean to build, found where our subconscious exit plan took place and invaded, shining flashlights into our eyes and at our feet, illuminating the filth we stood on, stood in, bathed in, crawled in; the beams reflected off the bones of forefathers, off the ribcages of yesterday’s mothers that served as the inconspicuous mattress for our children’s early (nine month to be exact) birthday party, shined on the skull goblets that quenched our thirst for truth, but most of all shined into our souls and lit on fire the dried up souls that had been in the too close presence of the sun for far too long, and burned us alive, from our deepest inside to the outer rim of our insides.