poem: the wall

in one hand i hold a paint brush
in the other a pail of paint
the walls are made of ivory
the floors are covered by snow
i dip my wepon in
and take it out again
it drips uppon the floor
as i look back at the door
i lash out in anger
and can only destroy more
a knock sounds from behind the door
and i turn to flee
but in this room of darkness
i am easest to see
i fumble with the lock
to let the stranger in
when the door swings open
a man in wite walks in
he asks me what i've done
as he looks uppon the walls
but utter a sound i could not
for i know that he knows all
back out the door he goes
and leaves me alone
i stare at the walls and am ashamed
for i know that i am to blame
the man returnes again
but i cannot look at him
i here him draw his knife
as he takes his own life
blood splatters against the walls
and to my knees i fall
why? i do not understand
i glance back at the man
and my eyes open wide
for on every side
the walls are restored
and so are the floors
but best of all is he
who died for me
for though he died he lives
and because of this stranger
i live without true danger.