The Magician's Hall
The wind is in the west
and the moon large and low,
the tapered horizon aglow
with the recesses of a withered day;
How symphonic a minstrel display,
tallied up like gathered notes to eve's call,
and the swooning lake ----
How the waves chase the eastern fringes of the bay,
they ask not why they go this way
(or that)
yet merely harken God's call
as they persist their way,
fain without promise.....
And cresting my observations,
as if in some pantomime-movie play ----
I mused:
Where is the Projector?
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2014
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