Sideways

Servants in the belly of the gorge. Worship the bottom. Because that is all there is. These Intervals. Fragile comas fool the heart into believing it has woken up. The flesh is a comedian. It laughs because we cry. It dances when we are crippled.

Finding the stairs. Predictable ghosts. Assembling the future in big stones and little sticks. Tracing the shadows. Broken mirrors staring. While I try to forget.

The hours. Spent. Wasted upon this rotting stage. The audience callous. As it listened. To the soliloquies of spoiled Macbeth's. And apathetic Hamlets. The dead, Skulls in hand. Uselessly. Pasting the flesh back onto barren skeletons.