The Invisible Wall

A random Sunday morning, a little thought, somewhere in between the mind and the body, a ticking, a wink, a visceral sound, papercups and paperplanes denying their forms, weird sensations and aged memories escaping from the cellblocks of dismay, a child lost in time, coldness, warmness, and everything else entangling in the middle, outlining paths, forming meanings, shaping words, mending ways, a sad man carrying his burdens to the top of a pitless trapping, a lady sipping tea, a balmy poison, a sweet contrivance, a troubled couple seeking reasons, for life as it is, in which people are moving and turning and returning again, exposing their prides, taking no sides, on the carousel of truths, and faults, behind the invisible wall, where the clown sits alone, smiling, weeping, knowing someday that all will be gone, will be gone, for good.

Note to self: Secrets will be out no matter how you kept them.