Cut to black,

The Curtains are all the audience can see now,

a once proud symbol of unity lies shredded across its soft, gleaming velvet,

the lights are back on,

people turn, but I’m the last to leave,

because I hold out hope,

for the curtains to reopen again,

for the insignia to stand proud so I can mount my flag upon the hill of victory,

but for now the curtains close,

the exits are locked,

I’m still here.

The ramblings of a man with no hope,

emitted from my mouth in foreign tongues,

but nobody is there to listen,

and if they were they would not understand,

the lights fade down to a bleak twilight shine,

I reach beyond the curtain and pull out a rose,

one that I threw myself and nobody picked up,

the rose meant the world to me,

but to everyone else it was but another flower,

dirt on the flowers suggest that it has been stamped on,

it stinks of urine and I know why,

because what is one man’s treasure is another man’s waste,

and everything I am is waste,

the world doesn’t wait for me,

I wait for it to guide me,

but it drops me off back in the room with the curtain,

intent on leaving me in the dark,

I reach behind the curtain again and this time climb all the way through,

the stage has gone,

behind the curtain is a field,

green and soaked with dew,

It is night and the creatures of darkness play their wicked games on the horizon,

jagged rocks of rough terrain signal their killing floor,

and in front of my eyes lies to the truth,

my grave, there are no words,

but I know it is mine,

it reads ’19’

and I fall to my knees,

the truth is beautiful and yet hideous at the same time,

fade to white


One response to “Curtains

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