I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
-- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 58
Cold brick wall cools the blush.
Shame-fever eased by dispersion,
Malapert longs for diversion,
To think not of the brush.
White brick wall reflects sorrow.
Penitent revealed completely,
Hoping that he acts discreetly,
Else dreading tomorrow.
Thick brick wall muffles sound.
Murmuring from celebration
Driving sense of isolation
And fear of secrets found.
Rough brick wall tickles brow.
Quivering from bass transmitted,
Guilt and shame o'er deeds committed,
Both feed churning stomach now.
To brick wall she will sing.
Whimpering, gut wrenched in her woes,
Waiting there trembling, for she knows
What nearing footsteps bring.
Image courtesy of Time Out! via MarQe's Study.