The notes like angels fall upon the
         paper submissive on the lines.
As if they were meant to mean more
                   than just a ceremony
of notes.
Giving a eulogy to
                                 my own request.

But even though cherubs grace my
         thoughts, divine interpretation
of an ending as this quill of white,


           gracing every imprint..



Perfection is blotted, the lines will
            never grace this reflection again.

An orchestra of hand gestures play,
         as if  I see ever instrument grace
the air in synchronized perfection.

I realise that I may not be a pauper,
        or one of riches and fame..

But I have a feeling that I'll live on
           within the lines of my creations.

A eulogy of my sound vibrating though
the halls of time, my eulogy is
           the sound I left behind never words.

I am aware my love
that in today's situation
we must distance ourselves
away from the world
But never from ours

You may not be the first one I see
every morning
but I always remember
Your fingers through my coffee mug handle
and your lips

I get undressed and pat my bed
Until I find the pillow that rests beneath my head.
As I slide beneath the sheets,
I can't help but get excited
As I hear the pitter patter of your feet.
Then the bed creaks,
And as you get closer,
My face gets hotter. I'm sure it's as red as a beet.
Now, I feel something close to my face.
It's not my pillow, but a warm embrace.
As my head lays to rest, I can't help but wonder
if it's cradled in your hands or your *******.
As I lay there, tears stream down my cheek
And then, I feel blessed as I hear you, my angel, speak.
"What's wrong, my love?" you say as you wipe away my tears.
"I just wish I could see you.
To be able to look you in the eyes and "thank you."
You have no idea how much it means to have you here."
You just smile, kiss my head,  and stroke my hair until we fall asleep here in my bed.

Wonderland
by Michael R. Burch

We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test
the beatific anthems of the blessed,
the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s
sincere religion. Magnified, the lens
shot back absurd reflections of each face—
a carnival-like mirror. In the space
between the silver backing and the glass,
we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass
who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed
to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed
for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee
to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key.
We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung.
In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one.

Keywords/Tags: Alice, Wonderland, Joan, Arc, martyr, blessed, beatific, religion, witch, Oz, carnival, mirror, lens, jury, kids, lamb, beliefs, faith, sonnet