Here behind my own wall,

I take comfort in Roger’s words,

as my window on the world

is larger than the slit

of light afforded the guards

of towers old and still

have room to fire an arrow

full of quivers through,

although these days the window

also lets in the mad and the fanatical…

even crazier than me.

I sit behind a fortress of books,

periodicals, fiction,

with a stronghold fortification

of doors and clouded windows

my reality view,

is obscured by living.