The Unspoken Poem by The Ron Allen Experiment

Written by Ronald Allen Bell~

Produced by G-Dawg Trading~ 

Poem from the book, Deep by the same author~ 

Written with pens we dipped into ink jars we found in the cellar; on wooden paper scraped in scribe,  from a time and place not taught to the children, why,  in my cellar did it hide.  Through my fingers it chose to be shown.  A language lost under rocks and stone. Above it built this modern home, Ghost which etch lost quotes they roam,  protect this secret, unspoken poem. 

Possession, as to serve the passing of a message,  blurred, as in another language, words,  which I can't articulate, but into my mind,  like a brand they are burned.  Not cursive, glyphic, nor of tongue I've ever heard. The accent is plastic, it's mechanical. Elastic stretched to connect the wheels which gave these creatures life.  A place advanced beyond us, yet it passed long before,  yes, my best guess is it's from way behind. 

Cliestle dotentagio frym bjar, Clieslte dote e' fru. Free your mind and the rest will follow.  Ghost like hip-hop too?  Never mind, the radio is playing upstairs in my sister's room. 

Com dis plato, tome riato, plato tome, siome.  Build a ship to travel time, time ship will take you home. 

Remember, metaphors aren't always friendly in a poem...

Time could be a deadline passed,  the ship the state in which we're made.  God and Satan cartoon characters,  on the other side of this world's gate!  The time to build may have passed,  the world ended, back in 1988?! 

Follow the yellow brick mind trick,  which was used as a test to,  telepathically control you through,  Suggestion not conducive to your view. Perhaps I wrongly deciphered the scribe? Spirits guide me, lend me clues... 

Alice fell into a well and drowned,  the white bunny was a tunnel served to guide her up,  on her way on down.  The Hatter, Queen, caterpillar and the clowns,  souls, lonely, trying to keep her soul,  stuck among unholy ground. 

The language looked to me now as did the one  I learned from the squares that raised me.  Knowledge came from my pen, I scribed,  deciphered the script of the unknown. 

Cliestle dotentagio Frym bjar, Clieslte dote e' fru. Oh, yes, I get it... A poem untangled from The One, yes, it said,  a poem of spoken secrets lost we never knew. 

I thank you , ghost, dwelling in the cellar,  telling, spelling out the clues.  I knew there was more to the stories on the TV.  Not significant just yet, but it will do.