The Speaking Walls

 

The Speaking Walls

 

An old place.

Long overused.

Long abandoned.

I have been here before.

Here the walls speak.

I come to listen.

There!

Do you hear?

The sad tale.

The bad tale.

Gone long now,

Its lessons too old.

Still,

I have come to listen.

Splendor was here,

Long lost –

Buried under the abuse of years,

Or stolen by the unvirtued.

But those tales are not told,

If tales they be,

Or perhaps,

I mere hear them not.

For these walls unburden themselves otherly,

Speaking of their making,

And not of their undoing.

See!

See you there?

Faded chroma blush,

Hues faded past vibrancy,

Tinctures washed pale…

These you see, yes,

But to me they speak.

Here are cries,

Murmuring a past long unseen,

Long unheard,

Heralding tales

We no longer know.

Who can sing these songs again?

Who can wake these stories?

Who can make report from what is lost?

Only these walls –

Though what they tell is incomplete,

Or dulled in disuse.

Then what can be heard in their silence?

What have I gleaned from the fade?

Some were here.

They had purpose.

They knew meaning.

They had stories.

They lived once,

And perhaps knowing that

Is enough.

I come here to listen,

Where the walls speak,

Where I have been before,

Where I will be again.

The silent walls have spoken,

And I cannot unhear.

I would not do other,

For I have my own tales to leave,

And would hope

They cause as much wonder.

 

Cliff Lake 11/14/2026

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2026