nineteen.

Like the wind 

I go.

For fear of the absolution

That will never come.

I brought down walls

For you.

And put up paths

In which we could

Follow.

Bright, they were.

Yet little pieces

Dropped away incessantly,

Like paint peeling 

From wood.

And faces were saved and

Unsaved.

And the rain?

It fell harder, more frequently and

Colder still. 

These walks are longer than

Ever.