A poem by Joel H.

Davidson

232.78 Centigrade

This placid world,

With deafening seashell sounds,
And wall-sized windows to false, colorful worlds,
Is not as placid as it may seem.

Here, dog-eared, ancient leaves smolder;

Age-old knowledge forever lost,
Only to be replaced by witless,
Inoffensive,
Glossy-faced dentifrice ads.

Here, a world on the brink of apocalypse

Rejects the colorful pages of their salvation.
Though carved in hues of black and white,
These shaded etchings proffer deliverance.

A simple man who once erased with flames

Now stands alone, a book in hand.
He, a sage for eons to and fro,
Solely holds our forbidden, fragmented memory
In his kerosene stained hands.
A plain old, regular Guy.