He goes on-stage to play
a role with histrionics
script-sustained in sneezing
misery he views
abhorrent to the craft.
It isn’t affectation when
it preys upon a self he
can’t renew, there is no
balanced sense of who
he is if guessing fails.
Cues are missed and lines
delivered lifelessly – a
deathly silence blooms
as faux applause in
every way imaginary.
He says in self defence it
isn’t me on-stage but He
who lost His Faith; I’m ill
and know I cannot play
the role as well as He.
© 20 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem