No shackles bound this life; no doors prevented
Its wandering everywhere
I saw a tragic puppet, Petrouska, hidden
Behind a cobweb of pale hours
In a dark corner counting tarnished coins.
Making little angry noises, not of fury, but fear.
The dynamo of crowded hours
Charged with a just hum
As I walked upon life's newly gained shores
The puppet was not the clowning doll, but you
Grown intensely aware of a quiet majesty
In foreign, chilled music, impinging only on the ear
And not the consciousness
Mad clamor of restlessness
Swept through this body
In askance of your attitude.
You wandered, too.
Devoid of contact with life's little realities.
Then thunder crashed,
Vibrating taut membranes of thoughts
Till lies assumed their rightful nature,
We both were dazzled
By strange specules of friendship's phosphorescence.
- Sgt. VIRGLE D. McKIBBEN