Poem Modeled After Emily Dickinson

From an English project a while back:

I met—my Soul—in an old House—
Of flowered—Peeling walls
That Breathed—the names of tenants passed—
‘Twas ideal Country for my Soul.

I chanced upon—my Spirit there
He wore a Cloak of sparkling—Dust—
And gestured toward two antique chairs
My quaint Consort, my Phantom Host—

We spoke—for hours—of fickle Fate
Of that great, heartless King—the Sun—
We spoke of Birth and Death and Creed
And of our blessed Mother—Moon—

The Noonday reached its—feathered Arms
Through the stained yellow window shades
Time traveled in—great bounding Leaps—
The Day waltzed on—in liquid strides

I grew old with my Soul—that day—
As he sat at—my gray Elbow
Our eyes—turned toward—the whirring Stars
Toward their small—faint—familiar Glow



The Hairspray performance is this Friday through Sunday. I'm going to be so sad when it's over, because I've really enjoyed theater. (Beats the hell out of track and field.) But right now, I'm stressed out of my mind.

Ooghba shlediddy camapamaisomgoonjab.

-Christopher