

               <Sitting : In the Key of B-Flat>
                ---------------<Minor>--------
                          
           Upon a bench, within the darkened pastel
                room, sits a Child.
         Alone and tired, wishing that the walls
                  of cedder, beautiful and
           smooth, would fall within themselves
         and let him, in his partial
             innocence, not feel the shame
              and sorrow as the metal bust, in
                all its dark and hollow splendor,
          glares down upon his wretched head,  as the sunken eyes
            needle in and tear within his self.  And as his
                 own small eyes look upon the single
              sheet of paper, with its terror and temptation and
           indecipherable code of black, the immensity and horror, and
          pain take the tears that trickle down his
         face, and the tears grab the dirt and dust, mixing it to
        create the soot that is his soul.  And as he
       begins to know this certainty, from his chest resounds
      the painful yelp of a traped
     dog.  
    And his tears are now sincere as he hurls the bronze head,
      through the soupen air, and into the lava walls....  watching with 
        anguish as it hits the floor and rips the earthen rug.

                {pR^creed]
             {igloo enterance]
            {strums the stork?]