Integration of the Human Form

By Richard Lynch

o o o o

The clouds proved green, the sky bore gray,
No sign of wind to wave this way.
A checkered plane stood still this night,
Without a single ray of light.
The clouds moved slowly towards the view,
Became morose; turquoise imbue.
A crack of light, no sound was heard,
The sky moved pace, as not deterred.
The stage was still, but there remained
A faceless man whose life was drained.
A suit of black, two maroon ties,
Above his collar there would rise
A shine of silver, glowing rod,
Horror broke through this calm façade.
Above this rod, a bulb pure round
Shot back the sky of much abound.
It rose and bent, four feet in height,
And ebbing with the turquoise night.
To look would mean to be infound,
Your soul to start, and back around.

o o o o