Green inspiration


You may ask what is it that breeds  poetry
From nocturnal thought, a green inspiration
From decay, a smell of infestation and death
As you now turn around , excessively aware
Of a role soon coming to an end on the stage,
While the green room there is still gaping open
With dress-clothes, a paint drying in its tubes.

Our scripted dialogues point to our role's end
A green grease-paint never to be put on again
A director and prompter dead in their tracks.

We still have our green faces grotesquely moving.
Their brows are still dancing of  love and death.
Can we come back to make one last show please,
Before we can finally go back to our backwaters 
In our snake-boats of grotesquely paddling oars 
All asynchronously moving towards somewhere.


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