The Greats

There is a plaque stoppered to
The wall, a shrine of sorts filled
With words of aspiration, our
Kind of stations of the cross,

Not filled with pictures but
Images of the mind, a divine
Slide show, shown slow, the
Art of creating everything from

Words, and before the young
And inexperienced in ways of
Creation, there they stand,
Station by station, creators

Greeting each other with softly
Spoken words, rhyming verse
And showering the halls of the
Next generation with the flow of

All things, metronome and
Angels sing in empty corridors
Teaching them, there is more
To life then what is seen, and

Eagerly they read memoirs and
Biographies of the greats,
Wishing for a simple conversation
Eagerly they wait for the signs

Of communication, that they
Are experiencing the same kind
Of nation of enlightenment as
The names laid bare before them

Until a professor walks through
Their path and ushers them to class
Ignoring queries they ask about how
To be ranked in the same manner as

Them, because the discovery of the
Answer, as she well knows, is half the
Battle, looking from their vigil out
Foggy windows at the motions of living,

And ordinary people milling about, and
Taking stories from the mouths of the
Willing and simply listening and observing
The beauty of life, until that plague is long
Gone from the front of their minds.

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