a play


made of whispers
& waiting
sidelong glances
into the wings
hoping to be fed
the next line
praying for another player
to walk on—
someone
who recalls the plot

after an opening
that showed promise
the pace
has ground to a halt
we stare at our feet
& consider the next move
where are we
in this goddamn thing?
the opening—
the middle—
the end—

the stage has shriveled
to a tiny box—
the possibility
of epiphany
has turned
to an image of despair—
an infinite paradox
of circular logic

the audience
sits on the edge
of overpriced seats
& waits impatiently
for disturbing truths
to be revealed

thespians gaze
into sweaty palms—
lines of a maze
all broken
dead ends  
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