[as]

sessions were going on, the church was full
and people were everywhere. some were
sitting and listening... hearing and learning
how to do hard things, others were talking
in quiet groups of twos and threes. and I
went to find a quiet corner all to myself.
I found a window seat, where I could still
hear the speaker, yet be alone. my eyes
wandered everywhere. up and down the hall,
outside, down at my crocs. i leaned my head
against the window frame and looked down.
wedged in between the frame and the seat
were some sticky notes folded up. gingerly I
pulled them out, wondering if they had anything
of interest written on them. hmm. the writing is
feminine. words are crossed out here and there
and others put in their place. it is odd to be holding
and reading something that was written by a girl
that is somewhere out there that I don't know.
the paper is purple. her writing is small and penciled.
i wonder if she has ever looked for her folded sticky
notes. did she even know they were there by the window?
she doesn't know I have them. but God does. He knows
who wrote it and He knows I have it. It intrigues me.
these are her thoughts...

voices so distant
empty and hollow
the other side of
cold machinery.

sounds recreated
never the same
as particles drifting
from mouth to ear.

space allowed
time traveled simply
never the same
as skin touching skin.

pictures to frame life
to fool the sharpest eye
while behind a canvas of lies
a box sits alone
as empty as out hearts
as cold as our minds.

unused emotions
creativity left for dead
imagination imagining reality.

a show to capture an audience
to condemn a human race
to drain them dry
and leave them helpless
crying out for more.