Francie Lynch


The Translucent Curtain


The cell rang the same as the old land.
I am the last drape to be drawn:
I like the familiar comforting ring of history.
The voices; however, have changed.
So many satellites and unseen connections
With disembodied voices moving me on to pull
The mate drape along the rod for clear viewing.
Along unseen lines, and in every direction.
Misused gadgets sending messages so near,
But I don't see a word, hear a sound.
Draw back, look for yourself.
There are dimensional messages,
Unheard, unless connected by the unseen and
Untouched.
The shears on this side are drawn,
And the waves roll on.
The unseen, unheard, undead,
Still moving us on.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 01, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, April 01, 2014

Topic of this poem: alone


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