The Translucent Curtain Poem by Francie Lynch

The cell rang the same as the old land.
I am the last drape to be drawn:
I like the familiar comforting ring of history.
The voices; however, have changed.
So many satellites and unseen connections
With disembodied voices moving me on to pull
The mate drape along the rod for clear viewing.
Along unseen lines, and in every direction.
Misused gadgets sending messages so near,
But I don't see a word, hear a sound.
Draw back, look for yourself.
There are dimensional messages,
Unheard, unless connected by the unseen and
Untouched.
The shears on this side are drawn,
And the waves roll on.
The unseen, unheard, undead,
Still moving us on.