A Play In Act III

Afternoon, friends. I have for you a poem that I hope would make you think. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much to read. Perhaps you’ll think it all an act? A performance? It sometimes makes it easier for me to visualize the plot line of my life with all its twists and turns and heartbreaks. To see it in the light a director would, perhaps attempting to change the more offensive elements to be more palatable for a more delicate audience. I’ll watch this play in my head, trying to pick out the characters and the plot holes. When one day it ends, who will be backstage?

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Graceful Wings

Why’s it always spinning?

Really can’t feel like I’m winning.

Always here and waking up again.

Licking wounds back in my den.

I feel like an animal,

or perhaps a small child.

One whose cranial capacity may be considered somewhat challenged in the mass department.

There’s an innocence in that.

I only hope that when I bleed that it is red I bleed and green you see in my eyes.

Maybe nothing hurts quite so much as now.

I don’t know whether I am a good man or not.

I only know that when the curtain closes over these hazels eyes of mine,

the only one on stage I’ll still see is you

with all your graceful twirls and dances,

your beautiful soliloquys,

and those eyes I swear were glued to me throughout the show.

I suppose I’ll see you at the end,

the end when all the families and friends and spouses see the cast.

I only hope that you won’t fly away from me again.