I am an actor without a script,
Stumbling on a dark and empty stage,
Strewn with dismal scenery and crumbling props,
I mouth my incoherent lines and filthy asides,
Into the vast and endless silence,
That, like a deep and bottomless well,
Swallows my words and empty thoughts,
And sucks my soul dry into desiccated bones.
The audience sits deaf, dumb and mute,
As my performance painfully unfolds,
Before their mindless lidless gaze,
And their ears that hear but cannot understand.
Hidden there within that static throng,
Sits the Critic with malignant and relentless eyes,
Pouring scorn and dirty approbation,
On my simple naïve play,
That is a cheap illusion for a life.
(9th March 2010)
