WALLS

Walls. . . so many walls surround and imprison me;
Work walls
That shut out sky,
And sun, and hold me daily
For eight hours until. . .
Walls of fatigue
Encompass me
And I enter
Home walls
Spent and undone.

Each day I arise grateful for routine
For a blanket of details
Under which I hide my palsied spirit,
My heart that neither sings nor soars.
If the day is busy enough
The pain is muted and–
Nothing matters too much any more. . .

Walls, . . . too many walls
Are not without, but within.
And here in this dark place
The most real me could die. . .
Quietly, almost unnoticed
In the rush, with only a few,
Occasional tears.

But then, what would be left?

Jesus, is it You who sets the captive free?

Linda Lane Gage, 1980