Back stage the lights are dim.
The theater is quiet, just you and the shadows
and the echoes of tragedy,
no costumes or backdrops.
just remembrances of performances past
and the gritty truth behind it all,
that you are neither king nor pauper,
neither baffoon or wise old priest.
There are no roles to play here.
You are exposed for what you are,
a stage prop, useful to further the story,
but lacking in life until the night comes
and the lights return.
About this poem.
Mornings are sometimes hard. A black veil of depression colors my brightly lit room. And when it does, I shout to myself “It’s Showtime!” and pop out of bed.
Silly as it seems, it helps.