Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WALLS, by O. J. BOWLES



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WALLS, by            
First Line: My unrest fumbles like a hand
Last Line: That's lying down!
Subject(s): Walls


My unrest fumbles like a hand
Along this slender street,
Where walls made out of houses stand
To hinder my retreat.
And always there's a wall of smoke
That rises ply on ply,
And makes me one with prison folk
Who may not view the sky.

I've found no freedom here at all
From walls in this grey town --
The street itself is but a wall
That's lying down!





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