Volume 96, Issue 91
Friday March 21, 2003
Maja's art

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THE ARTS ISSUE

Adam Powers: 18th Dissonet

William O: I'll Take My Chances

Chelsey Lichtman: Untitled

Samantha Sotelo: Darkness Cover

Larissa Wasyliw: Sick of the Everyday

Brett Lavoie: The Red Glass Heart

Ryan A. Pratt: Running Like a Saint in Exile

Mike Ward: Redirection

Justin Quesnelle: I Wake this Morning in a Box

Justin Andrew Steepe: Regret to Repose

Larissa Wasyliw: Wires Crossed

Myles DeRosse: Void

K.S.: fallout

Chelsey Lichtman: Passage from a short story

Mike Ward: Seemingly Oblivious

Lori A. May: Sonnet No 3

Ryan A. Pratt: Home

William O: House of Cards

Lori A. May: If I Were a Balcony

Elizabeth Lutgendorff: Tick Tock

Ryan A. Pratt: The Last Wavebreak

Ainsley Bladon: Pale Girl

 


By Taylor Um


By Niru Somayajula


By Allen Chen


By Nicole D'Cruz


By Nicole D'Cruz


By Taylor Um


By Nicole D'Cruz


By Tom Couchie

 

 

     
THE ARTS ISSUE
2003

Running Like a Saint in Exile

Spent all that time, side by side with summer
But like a bitter rival, a scheming shadow
I was waiting for it to die, so I could live again
And walking out my front door, in the depth of evening
I knew that for now, I’ve won.

Shells cracked the pavement in a static of white water
While any element well civilized was swept down the ditches
I saw the first of Fall’s casualties roll along the street
And I grinned because tonight, I’m not among them.
Only Heaven could drop such Hell upon this fair city
Only I would pray for such nights like these to arrive
And when I die, my eyes had better be open
Because I haven’t lost quite yet.
No, I haven’t lost you yet.

Bombs of light exploded across the aqua-drenched clouds
As Gods of old folklore screamed in thunder to bow down
And I raised my arms above the chaos and asked for more
I tore through the puddles as though reflections could be reached
Not a rose in my mind could bring this together
Not a bottle in the world could stop me now
And if I’m reborn, in the collapse of some graveyard gutter
Know that I haven’t drowned quite yet
No, you’ll never drown me out.

So now I’m running like a saint in exile
Through the storm and out of sight
Bringing no purpose, leaving no path,
And living as though I was born to die.

—Ryan A. Pratt

© 2002 THE GAZETTE