Walled City

Within the walls of a walled city,

my thoughts grow invisible wings ,
born inside a closet sized,shoebox like room.
They struggle to take flight,
stumble and fall,some taste the dirt forever.
A cat we called Tilly Kettle,
as the namesake of a modern artist,
often purrs in front of my door,
I don't know what it is that she's been asking for,
it seems a lot like all the things I struggle to
say.
Labyrinthine is the structure
of most things I've understood
 cannot be fought.
I'm not yet sure it's impossible
to transcend these concentric circles
of creation,perpetuated
through walls we've build
because humans love
to categorize,classify,stick people and objects
into glass jars as specimens,alike.
Ideas might be just as futile in their ambitions
as Icarus,
or the renaissance man,
their waxen wings might not endure
the sun's strength,
or the ocean's might,
within walls born,within walls
predestined to crash and burn
like stars,
just as distant
and alluring.
We spend our entire lives
moving from one room to another,
walls within walls,
familiar we make them,
the ones we sit on,some we even cross
over,
only to realise we'd have to leave
 them behind anyway
to meet new walls.
Within the walls of the walled city,
I've come to learn to let go,too
not only to look beyond walls
but to make peace with living
within some of them,
as long as I can paint them in shades
of grey,
grey is not just monotony,it's comfort,
it's not just uncertainty,it's exploration.
Some of us might never break down
walls in this lifetime,
but it's enough,sometimes,
to see them as more
than mere walls,
paint them in shades other than the
standard off white
and black.