Poetry

The Mason

by

Richard McCoy

Through a picture-perfect window
I watch trees grow and flowers bloom.
I see people wander among them;
people I would love, if I could get through.

My window is solely a lie-
it's a brick wall before me now
and the mortar is on my hands;
my defense is my great captor.
I cry out with strongest silence
then wait for a possible reply.
Hearing an echo of quietude
I stand back and watch them wonder.