Bricks: II

A mulch that smatters
and binds our tatters
of leaning wood struts
with rivets and juts.

I’m livid inside
these walls that collide
so loud and so rich;
an echoing itch.

Propagating cracks,
crunching red stacks,
hide a love, opaque,
where so much is at stake.

Quarried blindness,
fortified regress,
ghosts knock and
there’s no way through.

Bricks: I

Staccato breakers
and hot secret takers
that hold off the wind
and ne’er rescind.

Ignored of a duty
mocked of their beauty
funnelling hot wind
from those who’ve sinned.

Pulsating to heat
that swells on repeat
we dance in their fibre
and, holed up, retire.

Bleeding a rust
you’re sure is a must
over witches and ghouls
you’ve toiled and you’ve fussed.