Watchers

How many watch the greatest play
All in their seats they listen, still,
The while we actors do our will
To miss our cues and waste the day?
But will they close their eyes to us
When scenes are private by our wish?
Or like voyeurs, is this the dish
That stays their eyes upon our lust?
Or when they breathed was it enough
To live those lives both sweet and rough,
And we, the actors who remain,
But play to emptiness in vain?
I’d rather think the hall is bare.
I need none there to watch me here.

This entry was posted on February 9, 2009 at 3:26 am and is filed under Sardine, Line Pattern, Iambic Tetrameter. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.

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