Caught In The Walls
by Lacey Smith
12.11.04

This is only the cracking of bones
as icicles in this winter chill. The
rain is washing my soul away, taking
with it all my words.

Crossing the street, I am contemplating
history: the quarter-century mark.
Being a living part of something that is
already dying. The cars splash water
back as if to mock the thought.

This is years old limestone, these
buildings hold back the monologues
of ghosts, years of build-up, straight
fire. Sometimes I think we are
that way too.

I remember this analogy: the fog
moved in through the skeletal
bark and cut its way into our
throats. This is how our voices
got caught.

And we are both within the wall
part of a recounting that we can
never tell.

12/11/2004

Posted on 12/12/2004
Copyright © 2025 Lacey Smith