One wall

The wall might be red brick.
Concrete.
Undressed stone gilded with ivy,
Topped with concertina wire
Or broken glass.
Fraught with graffiti in black and
Cheerful yellow,
Stencils to elucidate crimes
Posing as just the way things are.
It might be twelve hundred feet tall
Or meander for miles through green and pleasant lands
Or be filled with the bones of those who built it.
It might have no mortar at all
And require constant maintenance
Or be made from mortar
Poured underwater.
We kneel in the dark,
Trowel in one hand,
The next stone in the other,
And contemplate where the stone fits in the construction.
Thinking:
This is my wall.
Thinking:
We each build our own wall.
But it is all one wall.
All the walls are one wall.
It is all one wall.
All walls are the same.
It is all one wall.
It is all one wall.