Page 204

M.S. Dean

Two Stories Above, lies the weight of the world; Below, sits an empty room save the many Colored walls. An Architect unknown – Perhaps many. Under the early sun, a trio of passers-by take notice. What do you make of it? A dream. A mess. And with barren chins on soft palms, The thoughtful stir.

An Ancient Whisper It is no wonder that some recent version of you will survive these forward and backward times. Of course you are of my shell, For on my side your shoulders cave. Neither methodic principle nor ink stained oak has swayed my heart so deeply as your kiss. And so, with far more words than words can say, I hide my lips in yours.

Soon, more arrive. And with each claim, a new trial. In the ground upon which they stand, Lines are drawn the width of a finger. They cry of the walls – Tear down but a single shade! Paint them all to match and to please the eye! Then, comes through the heat of tongue and friction of teeth, a child. And with lesser skin and smaller eyes she speaks to shrinking ears. For no light enters the room, there are no shadows. Surely, without contrast we will skin our knees and bloody our noses. Withal, for upon each wall bears a load that is equal, so too seems each its purpose. With her words came the wind, Alas, her message fell on reddened ears. And as she died, The world was born; Because she died, That world was ours.

is a wave is a wave A new generation – Born beneath a canopy of sound, Cast into a sea of turmoil Gave soul to a movement. A place of noise and of lightning Strikes fear in the humble – Gives voice to the hearty. This is the new wave, And a wave is a wave.

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