My Play
Play
What play is this,
scripts unwritten yet poignant,
cutting to the bone
of what deep inside is sewn,
and amid all the pain and suffering of self,
what compromise can help,
when oppression is on life’s agenda,
and masochism our strange pleasure.
Overwhelmed in afferent sensibilities,
all wires loose and electric,
as each moment of experience surges through,
as mind and soul seek reasons to ensue,
while the script amends each time commends
our fallen ways, before the lashes sound,
the pain profound imbues
and confusion reigns.
I am enigma, fallen yet risen,
within the deluded woven world I inhabit,
where pain and gain are seated pairs,
and love and compassion projected heirs
of this my cavern deep despair,
a symptom of my humanity,
an imploring desperate entity
seeking a lasting peace.
The play is my words written on time,
one moment sublime, the next remiss,
and as I evolve, dragged to my end,
I scream my disdain for all I am in ineptitude,
but hold tight that chord
that holds me here, keeps alive
my dreams, within all this servitude,
this place my thoughts construct.
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Another beautiful piece, Tony. I love your choice of words and rhythm.
Thanks Bill, glad you appreciated it. Many thanks.
Ah! This play called life – incredible. All the complications amid the pleasures of life truly forms a marvelous play. Your choice of Marcel Marceau is perfect for this poem, Tony.
Glad you enjoyed it Phyllis, yes and we the actors read less the script and improvise in the hope our dreams come true. Take care.
To know thyself. Do we really know or are we mere puppets, strings always being manipulated by the Universal magnets. Our tortured minds simply a playground of amusement for the puppet kings. A mad mind waiting to be released from the. But knowing we poets are simply their delights. It’s a Madd world no getting around it.
Thanks Vincent, and its is a mad world, but one we ourselves create, in our imperfection. Glad you enjoyed it my friend.