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With Dead Poets

A table, two chairs, a bright red room, fire burns in the wall.
I sit. My guest does the same. He smiles. I smile back.
The wine is served. Bright red ruby liquid. Blood. We drink.
A book is between us. “Mr. Frost your poetry has changed me.”
The old man’s finger lands on the book. “Has it?”
We drink again. The room is warm. The carpet is white.
“Where will you go now?”
“Back to the coast, to save myself.”
A spark in the fire pops. Demon shadows dance.
“Have you seen Walt? Or Percy? How about that lovely Plath woman?”
He laughs. It is old. His wrinkles tighten and relax.
“Why do you laugh, Mr. Frost?
”They are dead Robert. We are all dead. “
Leaves of grass. Whitman making sweet love.
The grass high and flowing. Words flowing out of his body.
They ring like bells. Fill me with ecstasy.
I see a pond. The pond has a boat.  Sunlight turns gray.
Percy walks from the depths. Gray and black skin. His nose is gone.
He carries a book. Faded. Title unreadable.
A hand falls upon my shoulder. Walt, my love.
”I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you…"
Tears. Bright and heavy.
The wind grows rank. My companions look west.
I touch my hero’s cheek. Beautiful whiskers and skin.
The wind grows heavier. I cough.
It is gray all around. She stands alone on a hill.
She blows a kiss. Bright red shoots from her fingers.
A vapour trail moves towards me.
The kiss speeds.
Her eyes, gas filled tears.
I love her.
It rides the wind. Hits me.
I fall.
The red room. Robert Frost. Wine.
"Let me stay, please…" Tears. Bright and heavy.
“No, my boy.”
“Why?”
“There is much in the world that needs discovering, more and more each day.”
"But I don’t belong…"
The fire goes out.
The wine shatters.
The room grows hazy.
His smile. Constant.
All fades.
I awaken.
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