The Play
I had cried when I got the part,
I didn’t sing too well,
The song was lengthy,
And they were all gonna watch it.
The music stripped me bare at times,
A feeling so overwhelming,
That I forget about time,
The pace was set too fast.
I have been playing the role far too long now,
The words don’t mean the same anymore,
The silent trumpet letting out a cry at times,
Some days I don’t look at mirrors.
I tried to run away once,
My bags were always packed,
And a list to manage contents,
Perks of living out of boxes.
There was a romantic in the play,
A die hard blue eyed lover,
Never trimmed his mustache,
The role never let him.
He sometimes cried at night,
And then went for a smoke,
I never asked him why,
He never shared.
Maybe it was he never found love,
Not even in lively retreats,
Of tents and canvasses,
Living reel in real.
An old Man, a dead Girl & a Boatman
He is lonely, old and keeps climbing up a trail on the mountain side,
He tells about his past demons up there which antagonize him,
His nightmares keep him busy as does the daily uphill grind,
Too much labor seeping through, drowning the music and time.
They kept calling the girl, the one already long dead,
They wanted to keep their promises made over guilt,
A blue old place ready to be rented, the doors open,
They feared that wrath of Gods hadn’t been felt in a long time.
The boatman kept waiting, the long call of sea always came,
Rowing was a means to wash sins, hollowed and diabolical,
Telling legends to little kids and secretly blessing couples,
He rowed faster when he carried priests across the bay.
Story Teller
All the stories he narrated, the fables and fairy tales,
The princes singing, the jugglers dancing,
Angels coming down just for her sake.
He was writing dreams, beautiful and vivid,
Fighting trolls and keeping demons away,
To let her breathe in the air of absolution.
At times he himself struggled to keep awake,
But still managed a hint of truth in his tales,
The curse was slowly turning into a gift.