It’s the same act – constrained by the grip of a forever re-written script. The grand drape retracts, revealing a serene scene, birds tweeting, my character reeling from easy-feelings. A shot is fired at thy offensive feet, dance mother-fucker dance – a fiery blaze of speech heats, strapped into the hot-seat. A Kabuki drop curtain suddenly reveals, a well-worn war scene battlefield. Arrows sail towards the heart-shield, the heart is no match to the poison it yields. Never prepared to engage with such a dishonorable foe, the heart-torn warrior wanders, head down, scouring the ground. Die you do, a death of mediocrity those who hold a candle of hope towards a fruitful relationship with a narcissist – they would probably say this poem sub-par.
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