Dr. Craig didn't like to start his classes the way the university required. the students had been warned by their fraternities, sororities, and advisors, that Dr. Craig was different, that he would do what was required for the first day of class, but not until after he had gone over a short lesson.

  the older man of 62 walked into the room, and looked each student in the eye. without any fanfare, he pulled a single, straight, page out of his worn leather messenger bag, and began to read.

  "Echoes of the Unspoken, By Ivan Alan Lowell,

  Death whispers softly,

  A shadow at the door’s edge,

  The final stillness.

  Lethargy lingers,

  Like a fog upon the mind,

  Slow steps through the day.

  Hate, a storm within,

  Thunder rumbles, hearts fracture,

  Sharp words like lightning.

  Anxiety stirs,

  A trembling leaf in the wind,

  Nervous, waiting still.

  Hope rises, like dawn,

  A soft light at the day's end,

  New dreams begin bright.

  Peace settles like rain,

  A calm breath after the storm,

  Stillness fills the soul.

  Love blooms in silence,

  Soft whispers in moonlit nights,

  Hearts entwined, aglow.

  Passion ignites flame,

  A wild fire that cannot rest,

  Burning through the dark.

  Life is fleeting light,

  A spark that leaps, then flickers,

  Moments burn too fast."

  Dr. Craig lowered his head after finishing, he contemplated only a moment before beginning his praise of the piece to a group of sophomore English majors.

  “This poem is a journey, an intricate dance through the stages of being—life and death, light and shadow, fire and stillness. The structure is deliberate, each stanza a distinct emotion, almost like a series of snapshots taken at different moments in time. The arrangement is key, as it begins with death, a whisper at the edges of existence, reminding us of the inevitable end. This is not a cold death, but one that lingers, a shadow, still, at the door. It sets the tone for what follows: lethargy, that heavy weight of existence when the body and soul feel adrift, caught in the quiet pulse of time.

  The introduction of hate is swift, sharp as lightning, the storm of emotion that fractures our inner peace. It's followed by anxiety, the trembling leaf in the wind—subtle yet profound in its depiction of unease. But then hope enters, soft as the first light of dawn, offering a flicker of possibility after the storm has passed. Peace comes next, settling like rain, a stillness that allows the soul to breathe.

  Love, the heart of the poem, is whispered in moonlight—gentle, yet full of promise. Then, we are swept into passion, a fire that cannot be quenched, a relentless force that burns brightly. Finally, the poem ends with life itself—fleeting, like a spark that flickers and is gone in an instant, a reminder of how precious and transient it all is.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The beauty of this poem lies in its flow, the ebb and pull of each emotion leading into the next. The cycle it creates mirrors the rhythm of life itself—timeless, unpredictable, and yet eternally connected. It's a perfect example of how poetry can distill the complexities of existence into a series of pure, crystalline moments."

  The room of twenty students hung on his words, the late summer sun bearing through the windows as they waited for what he would say next. they thought he would continue to praise it, they quickly found out differently. his tone different, almost guttural, as he continued.

  “Well... I must admit, at first glance, it does seem like an earnest attempt, doesn’t it? Almost too earnest. This poem—it’s like someone took a handful of clichés, tossed them in a blender, and called it ‘existential depth.’ Death whispers softly? Really? Softly? It’s death, not a lullaby. Death should be thunderous, final, chaotic, not a polite little whisper lurking in the background. The whole opening stanza is practically a Hallmark card—‘The final stillness’... How original.

  Then, of course, we progress to lethargy—‘Like a fog upon the mind.’ Fog? Please. The fog imagery is so overused, it has its own retirement home. And then we get to hate. ‘Thunder rumbles, hearts fracture.’ Another masterpiece of melodrama. How about a little less ‘storm within’ and a little more substance? There’s no nuance here, just empty symbolism, like a bad high school poem.

  Anxiety is described as a ‘trembling leaf in the wind.’ A leaf? Really? Who are we fooling? Anxiety is not a leaf—it’s a storm. A hurricane. But apparently, in this poem, it’s just a delicate little flutter. I’m almost waiting for the poet to suggest it’s all a ‘gentle breeze through the trees.’

  And then, just when I’m about to gouge my eyes out, hope arrives. Ah, hope. ‘Hope rises, like dawn.’ It rises, like dawn. As if no one has ever made that comparison before. Does the poet think they’ve stumbled upon some great revelation here? News flash: it’s been done. Repeatedly. In every grade-school poetry book ever printed.

  Peace settles like rain. Rain. Another timeless metaphor. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve read that one, I could buy myself a new library to store all the incredibly unique rain poems. And then, of course, love—‘whispers in moonlit nights.’ Moonlit nights! Really? Is this 1945?

  Finally, we wrap it all up with ‘life is fleeting light.’ Yes, life is fleeting—we get it. It’s as if this entire poem was written by someone trying to impress their English teacher, armed with a thesaurus and absolutely no originality.

  Look, if you want to dive into clichés, go ahead, but don’t call it a work of art. This poem isn’t an exploration of the human experience, it’s a mishmash of tired phrases strung together like a bad after-school special. If I had to choose between reading this again or watching paint dry, well—at least the paint might surprise me."

  To make his point, he began to recite once more, with a bit more fierce of a tone.

  "The Anatomy of Emotion, By yours truly

  Death is thunder’s roar,

  Not a whisper in the dark,

  Final, loud, and cold.

  Lethargy drips slow,

  Not fog, but stagnant air thick,

  A mind locked in place.

  Hate burns like firestorms,

  Not gentle rumblings of clouds,

  Searing through the soul.

  Anxiety howls,

  A tempest with jagged teeth,

  Not a trembling leaf.

  Hope? A fleeting spark,

  Not a dawn that always comes,

  But brief, then burned out.

  Peace? It falls like rocks,

  Crushing all that comes before,

  It’s quiet and brutal.

  Love shouts, not whispers,

  Unyielding in moonlit skies,

  Strange and wild, untamed.

  Passion is a blaze,

  Not a flicker that flickers,

  But an endless fire.

  Life is fleeting light,

  Yes, but it’s bright—then gone fast,

  Not just dim, not soft."

  the students sat there, not knowing what was expected, waiting for him to continue. he pulled a stack of pages from his messenger bag, and passed the syllabus out, then promptly left the room, not saying another word.