An original poem.


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i saw him sitting at the foot of a

great mountain. his eyes were greater than snow-

capped peaks of tibet. his few words play

with truth with a gentle fingering. no

other voice was necessary. a sun

had risen over his house. was it there

tomorrow? will it be there in someone's

dream? i don't know of any places where

he could ask that but here. yet he questioned

my existence, and said he was also

in a dream. he arose to find sadness

in his special hiding place. will it grow

uncovered? then he asked me what madness

i possessed, that i could hear imprisoned.









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An excerpt from A Chorus of Voices
by Kurt Messick
Dry Bones Press, February 2003