Walls

The wall of his environment,
Although Chinese, was not so high
He could not see tiled roofs of kings
Like dragon-backs against the sky.
And so, spurred on by discontent,
An eagle pen that lent him wings
Transported him across the wall
To tea in gardens with the Mings.

Thus staged, his long but static fall
Made drama for ancestral ghosts,
Whose proud trangressions raised the wall
Of ego, which with echoed boasts
Had in past epochs starved their souls
With windy oats of self-applause,
Till they had met great grandpapas
Twit-tittering on the seething coals.