These zinc walls, those very weary corrodes spreading in each tip of its peeking holes, the torn cheap-glued posters. The thinnest walls separating minds from impressions, cutting anxiety and curiosity from a tiny time-out. Bedlams no one could complain, a claustrophobic citadel.
'Stop and smell life', the trees cry. Clouds racing into nothingness. Rain pours blessings and we build hideouts against it. Compound shelters blocked the keen horizon lines. Nights made as dissolving as the sun. Why are people running?
These zinc walls, eyes can't see through anyhow.