a playmade of whispers & waiting sidelong glances into the wings hoping to be fed the next line praying for another player to walk on— someone who recalls the plot after an opening that showed promise the pace has ground to a halt we stare at our feet & consider the next move where are we in this goddamn thing? the opening— the middle— the end— the stage has shriveled to a tiny box— the possibility of epiphany has turned to an image of despair— an infinite paradox of circular logic the audience sits on the edge of overpriced seats & waits impatiently for disturbing truths to be revealed thespians gaze into sweaty palms— lines of a maze all broken dead ends  |
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