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There’s a show on tonight.
Nothing special: an empty stage,
a spotlight, and me - and a few words.
I wrote a poem; I would like to share.
Know you’re busy; would be nice to see you there.
Admission is free; come and go as you please.
Have delusions of greatness; crippled by fear.
I struggle on regardless. It’s an article of faith,
the Romantic streak I can neither escape nor control.
My pain and desolation is not unique;
you too, I imagine, have drunk from the same well;
looked into the cruel smooth water and seen your future
and past. Did you bite back a silent scream,
a sob of despair? All those faces staring back,
so many masks I have wittingly or unwittingly worn.
The echo of empty promises and words that were not my own;
I am sure (I think) I meant them at the time - might still do.
If I can sort out which is my voice; which are my dreams and visions
from a decaying library of old film reels, second grade scripts -
elegant in phrasing; devoid of meaning or content.
I forget, there’s a show tonight.
Would be nice if you were there.
Not sure which incarnation of that which is “I”
you will see. Whatever, or whichever, it might be,
have no doubt, somewhere in it there will be piece of me.
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