One NoteOne noteThe keys are struck with a match,Burn, burn, burn. All the words that there were,Gone now, in a flame of blue. Blue to match blueVeins. A grin through the smoke and ash. Blue lips,Red fangs. Red like the blood on the green grass.Red like the words smeared on the wall. Blue veinsGrow as weeds, up the wall to hide the words.The match is put out. The grin warms up.
RevelationA well worn jacket falls onto the chair.Raindrops poke at the tinted windowCuriously, not knowing they are a storm.The child peels off his wet woolSocks, and listens to the dust settle on the book.He looks at the wall, almost forgetting the key.The boy knows how important the keyIs. feeling the back of the sturdy wooden chairHelps him remember that the ancient book,Like the key, is a window.His mind feels full of thick wooljust thinking about the night of the storm.Grandmother always said that storms,Despite the pain and destruction, are the keyTo change. And after the rain there were wool-Like clouds. The boy thinks of her now, as he sits on the chair,Gazing out the moist, tinted window.Sullenly Slouching in its place, is the book.I know about that awful day, says the book.He knows not to ask about the day of the storm,But as he rests a dirty hand against the cool window,He knows that the musty book is the key.After Grabbing the book, he sits back down on the cha