Last Performance

Last Performance

A single, lone spotlight
Taken over by the shades
Of a heavy night.

A quiet draft blows
Scraps of crumpled paper.
Such a false sense that
Someone is here.

My knowledge, though,
Exceeds the sound
And I know better than
To turn around.

Ropes, old and tarnished
Splinter like a young girl’s braid.
Creaking like the secrets
Of an old abandoned house.

They hang in front
Of my hidden face and
Reaching out, my fingers
Slide slowly along
The cord others have
Felt so many times before.

They smell of the many hands
That have slipped along them
As mine do now.

The grease and oil
Of so many pasts
Sunk into each twine.
And now there’s mine.

They sway like
A cluster of hanged men
In front of my eyes.
And I think of the
Possibility they possess
Of a strained but definite
End.

With just a loop, a tug,
And a quick drop
Onto a new plateau.

I slide my arms through and past,
In between the ropes.
I glide through them:
The only curtain
I’ve ever known.

When this place lived,
How the colors glistened.
There were always lines to say,
Costumes to change into,
And scenes to hurry to.

And now, with the colors faded,
All that is left is a sad chorus
Of “what if’s” and “why should I’s”

Somehow peaceful, with not a single
Expression written upon my face,
I enter the spotlight.

A release relieves my body
In the fluctuating pitches
Of my pained scream that
Reverberates to an empty crowd.

An empty stadium
Calls for an encore
With its endless echoes.

My arms straight against my side,
My hands clutched in tight fists.
As I liberate my turmoil,
Head tilted towards the rafters.
The force of the departure
Drains what I have left to fight.

Like a puppet I never was
The strings that never existed
Have finally been placed around
My ankles and wrists.
Only to be snapped as I unravel.

My legs crumpling limply
Beneath me.

Dark blood spills from my skull
Onto the dusty platform
Like ink spilled on a white page.

My fingers twitching as life flickers,
I roll over with my lips touching
The hot, metallic liquid.
I taste life for the first time
In this moment of demise.

In the pooling of blood,
In a shaking breathless manner
I message what I’ve been meaning,
To speak aloud all along,
“You see, I was never
One for theatrics anyway.”