welcome to the story.

The drying out And the cracking thereof When my whispers fall and bounce fall . . . and . . . bounce fall . . . and . . . bounce. What will become of me Hero, fool, skeptic . . . Perhaps all. These hushed tones though There is more said in silence than with weighty words and so this silence speaks Beckons . . . there is a conspiracy going on. Ivory towers with performance based incentives Look at me they scream: I sit removed Look at us they scream: We are one and the same And nothing. Void. Contract, not covenant. This fierce posture that jerks, shakes Tumbles over like a jumping washer It used to be that it was subtle coming quieter and softer and lighter Sort of a fresh sheet gently dropping And then it was rooted Just like that. Can you believe it? All His work hindered and tied up Not laid to waste but certainly . . . Then . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . He awakes He stirs He comes He is back Indeed He All dreamers dream All poets write All dancers dance All singers sing It is your time to be heard Your time to make THE noise with a movement of subversion and hope and all things new. Cornelius is knocking at the door and he waits. He waits.