Every Corner Turns Into A Brick Wall

Every Corner Turns Into A Brick Wall

my words scrape against stone,

echoes swallowed before they leave.

Hands tremble with the weight of sound,

the air thick with the absence of reply.

I speak,

but the world leans away,

walls growing taller with every breath.

Silence is no longer quiet,

it is heavy,

it is sharp,

it is mine.

I shout into empty rooms,

my own voice bouncing back like glass,

splintering into fragments I cannot gather.

Footsteps fall behind me,

but never catch up,

and the shadow of my own reflection

turns against me.

I press my palms into brick,

feel the heat of resistance,

the unyielding nature of a world

that will not listen.

I walk the same halls,

the walls folding closer with every attempt,

every word swallowed by the mortar

between thought and sound.

No one comes.

No one sees.

I am both witness and accused,

my own heart hammering against rib and reason.

Yet still I speak,

each breath a small rebellion,

each word a spark against the dark.

Every corner turns into a brick wall,

and still I walk it,

still I carry a voice

that will not die,

even when the walls close in.

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