A Magazine of Many Arts

Properly, it should be
seductive
– repay all the
trouble
of perception.

It should have no
beginning, must
at the very start
be already in
motion;
and no end.

Its theme should be accessible.

Whether it should have Time
is a question;
the pathos
and Death, its companion,
so often betray
poor taste.

Properly, it should
resonate
– clear; like all the
bells ever cast,
intertwined,
purified.

“Aliens exist,” that’s what you told me;
By the gnarled oak tree where we used to meet,
Careful and discreet, for our nightly tryst.

“Don’t believe the lies they tell us,” you said,
Enraged, as you spread your arms in the air,
Fingers aimed up there, pointing to the skies.

Gently I soothed you, wiped away your tears,
Held you, calmed your fears, swore you would be fine;