Still, the empty room waits.
No shapes are there.
No shapes are there.
Its noise, filling my ears,
has changed.
More hands are needed to gather
the fire, to stoke from the gray solids
and gather its reds and yellows up.
To fill this world, its rings—
on the edge of its own wilderness—
is to hear ones own motionless voice.
To see its children—
the colors in their dreams—
in an empty room,
full of the noises yet to come.
About Mark Struzan:
Mark Struzan is an artist & poet currently working in Portland, Oregon.
Wow, this is such a powerful poem. Very well done.
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