A step ahead the threshold,
a hand afar the frame,
the door behind you
slowly turns to rest,
appearing weak and tired
of withholding the chill.
I sneak past like a ghost
not caring for its lament.
Your pace is slow,
emphatic on
the door’s weariness.
I get ahead of you
when, suddenly,
a gleam of will to reach
outside your self-built wall
as unintelligible words,
to my ears, resounds.
“Excuse me?”
my answer to you over the wall.
“I was talking to someone else,”
you reassure.
Just, there is no one else
so no response is heard.
(At this point in the plot, the album’s protagonist, Pink is attempting to reach anybody outside of his self-built wall. The repeated question “is there anybody out there?” suggests that no response is heard. Is There Anybody Out There? The Wall, Pink Floyd. Kiitos.)