The way
the evening progresses
is
much like a play in reverse.
The
curtains are drawn after
the last
line is spoken,
and the
story back-tracks
like an
ancient curse.
Nothing
quite goes as expected.
Interruptions
reproduce
like
tadpoles in the spring.
And
while swarms of thoughts
linger
thick like a cloud,
the
locusts are timid and shy.
At key
moments, words plant
their tiny
barbed fangs into
soft
spineless bodies of remorse.
Playing
the part of predator,
sly
letters flip over their prey
like a
crocodile’s death-roll.
After
the broken phrases,
a sour
downpour drowns sound,
and
silence pools like blood.
There
is nothing left to say,
but
the need won’t go away,
so the
orchestra packs up.
And
that’s the end of the show.
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