pulling splinters from my hands,
I pick through the rubble to

make way for whatever edifice
should replace what was taken

from me - a shelter so feeble
and precarious in its youth, but

steadfast, stolen and demolished -
perhaps a fortress thicker than

the lion's mane would be most
suitable, after all, who would

ever dare to defy my growl and
roar; or instead a museum

for all to come marvel at my
exhibits, my archives and fresco

scenes, my sculptures of alabaster
long cracked at the base - look,

but don't touch; or maybe what I
need is a tower in the clouds,

soaring over the landscapes below,
to make a beacon of myself bathed

in sunshine, no shadows cast, just
the gleam of all I am building

ever higher; don't be afraid, traveler -
bring not your battering ram but a brick,

and I might just let you in

01/10/2018

Author's Note: CTA bus route 77.

Posted on 01/10/2018
Copyright © 2024 John Herzog