what if

If these walls could talk, what stories could they tell?
One hundred and fifty years of pain, anguish, hatred, truth.
Condensation oozes from their very fabric like tears,
each bursting forth with its own tale to tell,
Tears that flow into an amalgamation of sorrow,
and fall slowly to form a puddle on my cold concrete floor.
I watch as it moves gently towards me,
then increasing in pace, breaks into a five fingered tributary,
encompassing and caressing my bare foot with its salty welcome,
like a friend.