Underneath the Summer's Deepest Skies: A Collection of Poems

The Tale of the Twins Called After Artists

Two years in the past,

She laid now not forgotten.

Eyes once bright

Dull by the moments passing by.

Pages sweet and tender,

Coffee stained with tints of red.

She wrote her life among the ink,

Only to allow herself to shrink

To the depths of gray unknown to man.

Darkness swallowed her whole,

Leaving nothing to remain.

There she stayed,

Silent on the floor.

Bright eyes dabbed with crisp clear tears.

Two years in the past,

Those pages she wrote

Happened to slip beneath a bench

In the middle of the auditorium.

For those two years,

Ages and ages hence it seemed,

Those pages laid on the barren ground

Waiting to be found.

Alas two years past,

A wandering soul had found the tale

Of a lost girl wanting to return home

To a place where she could safely roam.

Gentle Rose,

Her hands upon the pages

Read the story of Monet

In sweet, simple phrases.

"Goodnight, dear moon.

Goodnight, dear mother.

Goodnight, dear sun.

Goodnight, dear brother.

Goodnight, dear flowers.

Goodnight, dear father.

Goodnight, dear forest.

Goodnight, dear rivers.

Goodnight, dear stars.

Goodnight, dear showers

Of vast rains which I will never feel again."

The pages shook in sweet Rose's hands,

Her fingertips a sudden blue

As the words unfolded more.

"I am afraid of this world."

Timid Monet had once wrote.

"I am afraid for my brother,

For where will he go?

Where will he venture?

Where will he find shelter

From this terrible place?"

It was then that Rose remembered

A legend of a boy