Mixed in with dirt and spit,
I made mortar from the mix.
Build these castle walls a little higher
and keep myself from falling out.
Spitting divinity upon Mans tongue,
losing yourself on the thought,
not savouring the taste of power.
This is the price we pay,
toiling in gardens we don’t own.
It stings with every word
and remembered touch.
Picket fences without end
and doors without keys.
seal another jar in my honour.
Let me bury it in your garden.
A million repetitions,
“Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another…”