Meeting of the MastersBy Jaystone
The grand auditorium rented for
this most special occasion filled with exuberant expectations, opens it’s marble and gold doors to welcome those who
are too be honored.
People start filling the seats. Excitement is as thick as smoke in a crowded local tavern.
Stagehands do mic tests…testing 123, testing 123. The soundman then gives the ok sign. People file in anxious to meet
The audience feeling the anticipation casually speak amongst each other. One section argues the
value of Poes writing, saying he was nothing more than an addict. While others pleads his worth. The moderator then steps
towards the podium. The crowd gives a silent hush.
Welcome was his first reply. Stating tonight we are honoring
those who honored us. The ones who gave their very reason to spill forth their utmost creativity. We are giving our honors
back to the ones who either made us laugh, made us cry, made us feel alive. The crowd erupts in a cheer enough to deafen a
One this very podium are five seats. Upon the five sheets five unique styles. Of poetry, of prose, of the
glorious literature they have left.
Please hold your applause until all guests have been seated.
the first chair is a woman whose simplicity ideas have made scholars debate the simple ness of her grace. Please be seated
Sitting in the next chair a man comes and we wonder why we never could find out your ideologies
during your time. Yet today we see your wonders. Mr. Morrison be seated.
Ahh, Mr. Poe were you really here?
Yes, oh yes your body was, yet your mind elsewhere. Be seated.
Tygar Tygar, Mr. Blake, your words and artistic
creations have us all still perplexed. You may also be seated.
Mr. Frost you stated two roads diverged in
a yellow wood, and you choose the one less traveled. Maybe this is our lesson, that we should take the road less traveled.
That you are now seated, we want to thank you for your collective poetic imagination. Giving us
to not be only onlookers of you greatness, but for us to truly give you what you deserve. No words can describe, it is better
this way. Your works never die, they just get better with the passing of summers to winters.