The Final Act
Losing control is tough .
Was I writing a prophecy for myself ? All those poems about broken hearts While looking down at others Blinded by a spell of someone Reality never reached their eyes Ever changing colourful skies I have no favourite colour of mine Am I becoming like them ? Subjects of my own poetry A puppet driven by invisible strings Puppeteer being love Dancing on beats I never imagined A stage with no audience Just myself , unreachable void walls covered with questions only I can see Should I let my curls down today ? Wear his favourite shade of blue ? Will he notice if I quote His favourite book ? Such thoughts spiral around me With a whiff of shame Taking another graceful step back Am I doing it for the plot , as they say ? Just one chapter of yearning Learning my lines too late each vein holding his words I’m trying to hold the strings myself They cut through my hands As I mutter my old lines “Don’t be a fool in love “ “Oh to be in love ... “ while the new ones echo I have seen such plays before Laughed and cried along the rest Knowing I could never be such an artist too wise to understand such rhythm But here I am alone Scared to send an invite “Will you dance with me ?” a whisper at first the drum beats louder The stage shudders pushing me further "Will you dance with me ?" The lights fall on me and the only audience who looks straight in my eyes can he read mine ? "Will you dance with me ?" My hidden secrets echo now "Will you dance with me ?" “Did he cry when he left ?” His simple no , Crumpled the stage "Did he cry ?" while he washed off the blood Closed his eyes and heard The strings tightened my blood on the floor just another puppet hanging by her neck. ~K
