...Feartre

...The doors remain unmoved by it all
...the house lightes they blink and thus close
...no wordes or prosaic tomes to imparte
...the autocue does not stop - but merely slows

...the sounde of the heavens
...are heavy and laden with nighte
...you cannot see the leading lady
...bar juste the shadow of her stagefrighte

...t'was to be the final play
...the one where she falles into those arms
...fluttering eyes like summer byrdes in flighte
...ride high on that sea of charm

...no hush now heard, even that seems deathly colde
...no wordes or actions to the fore
...those emotions now not so bolde

...this buildings hearte beats darque and slow
...where now these lines
...when they have no home fore to go

...characters of cloth just hang like darque skies
...no reflective tearful eyes
...that stare up from the endless seats
...in search of their greatest reprise

...each one a life, a time
...they lived for the moments you gave
...they hung their hopes on your every worde
...so you dug them so deeply into a grave

...tread softly my childe
...begone with wynde unhearde
...seek solitude and forgiveness
...take flighte this moste grotesque of birde

...leave only the feeling, the pureness that cast
...hope that for all time now
...these wordes they surely must laste

...a seat upturned, a shimmering flare of duste
...an empty house but one tonight
...this curtain call of truste

...no ovation , no bow
...no beckoning smile
...there is but everything that shoulde be here
...this walk - the loneliest mile

...so much to say, but so muche left unsaid
...court your Jester on a daye when you are wed
...now cloakened and kept, lock'd safe til you'll know
...just like your shadow caste
...across an unplayed piano