contact us

Use the form on the right to contact us.

You can edit the text in this area, and change where the contact form on the right submits to, by entering edit mode using the modes on the bottom right.

           

123 Street Avenue, City Town, 99999

(123) 555-6789

email@address.com

 

You can set your address, phone number, email and site description in the settings tab.
Link to read me page with more information.

+ Post Here

What's True

Robin Rice

[ Listen To The Audio Recording ] Traveling while sleeping, 50 light years off, I came upon a necklace made of copper wire.

And thinking I could make it bend, perhaps with heat or simple thought, I set out trying, only to find, it began to create of it’s own accord.

Weaving itself into the shape of a heart and as it wove, it sang some terribly strange and beautiful song,

one I think I used to know when I lived 50 light years off. 

Hearing only a wordless, high-pitched tone, yet still I understood.

An old friend, this creating copper wire, an oldest, dearest friend.

Ah you! Again! At last!

And so I brought another friend to see the magic, too, a friend from this world, thinking surely it won’t work with someone else watching, but it did.

“Remember 1948?” the wire sang, showing me a small, white, hand bound book of my own etchings that we once laughed over with red wine somewhere in Europe 14 years before I was born.

And then I knew, oh yes, I knew, this was indeed my good old friend from lifetime after lifetime.

As my friend wove yet another shape for me to wear about my neck, I let a tear escape from my non-traveling eye, the one back there, asleep in my bed.

A tear because this song, this kinship, is the love I speak of on those rare moments when I speak of love at all.

The alarm’s sound crashed in, 5:30 AM, yanking me back 50 light years in a fifth of a second.

The closer I came to waking, the farther my wiry, coppery friend did go, and the more I knew I would lose most of what I’d seen and heard and felt.

And yet not sad, but oddly assured, I know again who guides me now, the one who weaves a true heart and sings a true song and remembers good times in 1948.

You cannot tell me this dream is less real than the crass, cold world of war and politics and rough faces worn down by poverty and cigarette smoke and all things coarse and harsh.

You cannot tell me, I will never believe you.

This real world is not real at all.

It is the dream that’s true.