over time, the fence had grown
in height and width,
in depth and strength

the old, thin wooden planks,
long gone–now, tungsten steel,
which could withstand
anything short of tank fire

the house was largely unchanged,
which is odd–why so
much emphasis on keeping things
out, when the inside was steadily
succumbing to the slow march of entropy,
the unforgiving whims of sun and 
wind and rain

the aerial view revealed the feint–
there is no such thing as “safe”,
“secure”

the attack can simply come 
from a new angle

ironic, no?

the fence began as a response–
the low, white picket fence of childhood–
now replaced with ugly,
indifferent prison walls

yet the vulnerability
remains unchanged and
cannot be eliminated

as realization hits, 
his therapist says,
“so why not just tear it down?”