The curtains open slow to the sound
of a single, sad violin softly playing
the stage is dark except for a chair
a Mackintosh lit up, simplicity portraying
moth-mask walks onto the stage
sits in the light, in old jeans and boots
her head is bowed looking at her folded hands
the audience hardly breathes in expectation
what now, how does this script end,
will we suffer through this silent narration
moth lifts her head, looks at the people
she cannot see, and barely audible, a plea
"Are you there father?" People exhale.
"ARE...YOU...THERE...FATHER?" she shouts,
murmurs abound, yet no answer to this tale
the moth wings have grown or so it seems
they flutter furiously around her head
her long-nailed fingers calm wings' extremes
straps of her top slip down her shoulder,
light dims her image, dressed looking naked
"Are you there my lover?" she asks the crowd
"Did you forget it was sacred when we mated?"
the moth-mask is now huge, all embracing
her body shines through, in shadowy lines,
light increases, wings unfold, her beauty bold
she takes flight across the stunned audience
flutters towards the light, the only beam
they clap nervous, then endlessly loud, though
none understood what they had heard or seen.
On the stage stands the straight, empty chair,
and some wondered, had she ever been there.
feedback van andere lezers
Poem in the Desert...
No one listens
killea: many thanks Andre
weerom zo mooi, pfff - knap geschreven en de ondertoon die schreeuwt is gelezen ...
killea: many thanks Ivo
Enkel ingeschreven gebruikers kunnen stemmen.Totale score: 4
Uitstekend: 2 stem(men), 100%
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totaal 2 stem(men)