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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s