The man is made of bricks.
Stacked up walls of eroded bricks.
Heald together by his convictions.
Stand tall, as the crumbling gravel dusts my feet.
Be rigid and cold, rough and unweilding.
As the wind blows, shelter me.
The mortar chips away revealing something hidden.
Buried for ages. Forgotten.
The woman run and start to pick the structure apart.
Find it, find it.
Who will find it?
Bloody hands still dig.
And I look onward at the man's ruins.
Now he is frail, barely standing among the wreckage.
White faced and uneasy, I will hold you together.
Weathering the storms, leaning against your warmth when the suns rays blaze your once strong foundation.
In a small crack, there layed his compassion.
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