| FOLLOW THE LEADER Looking down a barrel, whose face is at its handle? Whose hand controls the blows? Whose fire burns in the darkness of so many souls? What kindred flame will unite them in a wedlock of fantasies? Whose pleasing promise will remain a mystery, a legacy unfulfilled? A paradise lost in a splattering of conditional response.. Whose repose is lost here? Whose stanzas of rhyme are gone? And who will find the meaning in the sandstone buried long? Upon the tides first parting, all will walk the land alone; stride in measured meter, and cough in 3/4 time.. chilled always to the bone. © Sarah Gallant 2001-2002 |