On the stage of life, I paint my lips crimson, a smile stitched with invisible thread
On the stage of life, I paint my lips crimson, a smile stitched with invisible thread,
While the scar beneath my ribs sings a melody only I can hear.
The halogen spotlights burn intensely, bleaching the shadows where my pain retreats,
Like a sleeping child, small, forgotten, yet still breathing in the deafening silence.
Pirouetting with borrowed grace, each step a sonnet, each glance a verse,
The audience sighs, mistaking the tremor in my hands for passion,
Unaware that it is the echo of a wound I refuse to name.
Ah, the art of vanishing in plain sight—how the body becomes both blade and sheath.
At the end, they throw roses, their petals soft like apologies I will never receive,
I bow deeply, ever deeper, until my spine becomes a question mark—
Is it enough? Will it ever be enough to play this silent role amid applause?
And in this flow of thoughts, each moment becomes a suspended question,
A dance of shadows and lights, a struggle between what I show and who I am.
I wear my mask with elegance, as the world spins around me,
A stage full of illusions, where I am both the actor and the spectacle.
In the silence between applause, I think of my scar that sings,
Of the child asleep in the shadows, of the questions that curve my spine,
And I wonder, deep in my soul, if I will ever find answers,
If my stitched smile will ever become a free, unrestrained laughter.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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