The Show.
P. Mortuus
Misguided I feel prized yet lost
in lies I realize to pries time’s cost
of age- in an invisible cage lent
a page of sense I renegade incensed
Empty shallow no remedy I can borrow
to instill celibacy as promiscuity sorrows
my peers who leer when I come near
they fear I’ll rub off my “bad” it appears
Gambling between odd ramblings I scream
no sound- I breathe no breath- sleep no dream
As I pass by unnoticed- no foes nor friends
And when I awake I believe I’m asleep again
I feel shallow- vying for a pretention of love
yet narrow span so short in attention it doth
only more to gore my mind- I implore but why
does the answer door open to say “you die” ?
The cameras- the copters- the audience & doctors
my muses or am I theirs- it matters not- I’m an actor
I try to act a show to be the best that has yet to show
& know they say a dead actor is a star tomorrow
I can’t sheathe the steps that lead me to this step
and I can’t stop death from enveloping this inept
imagination of a nation so driven to procrastination
that even until their last step they delay Grim’s visitation