A thousand ivory towers sit clumped
They fill up the valley below and
spread over the plains of grass as
the river cuts through.
The tops reach higher than the birds
Deep into the clouds they pierce
until they scrape the moon as it slowly
passes by each night.
Standing next to a tower
I look up from far below.
With a hesitant hand I reach out
And touch the ivory wall.
So smooth and slick like glass as
my fingers run up its length.
Not a crack, not a crevasse
To reach a finger into.
This wall cannot be climbed.
Who dwells in such a high place?
Do they converse across the way,
or do they ignore each other as much
as they do me every day?
Such a lonely place to call home.
These towers seem to me more
like an escape from the life below.
Where I stand.
If they only understood.
Fortune favors the fool.
by Philip Wardlow 2013