A Director's Script
The curtains open graciously,
The lights centered on the stage,
Turned on, dispelling darkness,
Like the sun chasing the moon,
Fixated, we see the players of the play,
They lie, they act, they pretend,
To be not themselves,
In character, were they?
They heed not the presence of spectators,
They consume their breaths,
They consume the light,
They create disparity,
All for the play,
For the sake of applaud by them,
For the sake of recognition,
Fame – fortune,
We patiently watch them,
We know them,
As a bird knows the sky,
The players act, act and act…
Words played from the director’s script,
Every action carefully planted,
Carefully orchestrated with precision,
Without flaw, the script knows all,
The players, bound by such submissiveness,
The director himself knows, the finalé,
Yet he plays them anyway,
Without reason he does so…
Fame perhaps? Or fortune then?
To amuse his friends, the audience?
If so…players are doomed indeed…
Regardless, the script plays them such,
They must adhere to their callings,
To listen to the flow of wind bristling,
The very fall of their senses,
Their eyes blinded by that light,
The light which illuminates them…
They have no choice but to act…
Or perhaps they do?
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