These Things

 

I:
these futile lines
bleed heartfelt sorrow
regret falls
on deaf ears
a mute heart
clenched like a fist

to have a response
anything . . .
anything, would do
& yet i know
this miracle does not exist
in this world
that this gift is something
no-one wants to give

the false illusion of love
has fooled me deeply
pulled me darkly into depths
my senses dazzled
with the promise of it all
with this fiction
these words
now uttered

they must be said, these things, this way. For this, is my lonely, last attempt at . . .

Centre Stage:
Lights fade to black as curtain falls. Blood red roses hit the stage. Camera flares pop as centre stage spotlight pinpoints the main character, sporting obvious tears on his rouged cheek, begging release. Behind him, appears an angel spinning on a wire – ‘Deliver us from evil’, ‘Deliver us from evil,’ is all it says (the angel – with black eyes coincidentally) until the lights fade once more to black

Postscript:
I heard an old man saying, as he muffled his coat around his wrinkled chicken neck, shaking his head morosely: “The shit they’re coming out with these days!” Grabbing his baggaged lump of a wife by the arm and heading duckdown to the nearest exit, clucking all the way.