The final darkness comes,
clad ironically in brilliant jagged flames
that lick these bleached pine walls.
There are violent boys outside
who hate me,
and do not understand this play of mine,
now entering its final act.
"All the world's a stage,"
that great god Shakespeare said,
and I took William at his word,
and wrote this work
from all the torment in my soul,
with all my anger
crushed to perfect diamond in my heart.
My play has run its course
and all those violent boys
behind the burning doors burst in.
I raise my gun against the blue-clad mob.
They raise their guns toward me.
Then comes the biting pain
that burrows through my core.
My world goes sharp with agony,
as demon arms latch on
and drag me through the mud to die.
My play is ugly now, and dark.
I seek the perfect final words
to show my noble soul,
but babble badly as the curtain starts to fall
and precious life leaks slowly into dirt.
Closing night.
Useless.
Useless.
YOU ARE READING
A Mind's Eye
PoetryA collection of poems grown from myth and mind. Gods, monsters, and mortal men in a variety of poetic forms. Narratives and allegories as deeply rooted in the psyches of modern humanity, as in the civilizations that planted those seeds. Songs from d...
