“Better seen
from this side of the fence,”
he would always say
and I wanted to point to the chain-link behind us
and to all the fences behind them
but he looked so certain.

I let it go;
set the gears of a lifetime turning.

Now he sits in rooms
of glass and drywall and brick
and there’s a fence outside,
but what keeps me awake
into the most vicious hours of the morning
is the barricade of apathy he’s constructed for himself,
tucked away behind years of promise.

I can only hope
that Twain was right and in three short years
I’ll circumvent the perimeter
and find the gate and we’ll sit
and I can listen to wisdom
for as long as the rain lasts.

"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."

How has no one commented on this yet? It's fantastic.

Seriously, great job. Keep writing, I'd love to see more.

I honestly stayed away from UG for the longest time because I thought everyone's pieces were horrid, but I've read five pieces this week that have made me eat crow.

Fantastic work.
Poor advice.