Speaking from within,
Without a tongue,
Writing is a magic conduit,
Too often discarded in lieu
Of violent physicality
In this IPOD age.
Little Anne's joy when hearing
A waft of Leo Smit's trio for
Flute, Viola and Harp floating into that
Attic in Holland contrasts the
Nazi horror that freed Smit's soul
In the dark recesses of Sobibór.
vs.
Ellen Jamesian crusaders crying havoc,
Burning the streets, shrieking indictment
Orations to guilty and innocent alike,
Brutally seeking means to an end,
Living in oblivion to feeling feelings,
Feelings now cast aside like dirty garments.
Darkness smiles its silent approval,
But Anne still holds out hope for us.
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