Sold

Pressing palms against
dirty glass,  and scraping fingernails at
sticky adhesive
    peeling for decades
all the while twisting permanently resistant
doorknobs
cool to the touch.
           We can't get through, it seems.            
Observing a pyramid      
that's been in the works
for six long years
    stone by pricey stone, the fantasy crescendos
outside these old window frames
and panes inside the door
you have become consumed
    in the fashion that sunlight glances off your blocks
and blinds our peeping eyes
you don't want us to see
you cannot turn around
    because looking through the glass-
to the truth behind our whited pupils-
you'd glimpse the faulty foundations
the cracks in each weighty stone
    the structurally flawed design that reaches heaven
only through this imperfect glass
and from behind our familiar eyes
can you see that this whimsical life you've built
    is destined to become your tomb.