till the poet cries uncle goes the old legend (please critique (title may change))

[Frosty da snowman]

a tragedy on paper
struck down in ink on un-even lines
the tale of imagined sorrow spilling to acts
a salique
that long un-spoken rant given voice, given name, given stage
the power

quite adolescence
the image of each entrance
players maturing as sorrow unfolds
time unraveling as the plot knots
every word a winkle in the space between us

each exit a death
growing grander and grander till the final curtain fall
some imagined misstep far off twirling the curtain ropes

each exit a death
exuent stage left of a friendship
time line
or some other emotional melody
the orchestra’s beak’s hidden in their clever channel
maestros of the unseen pitfall


a tragedy with no comedy is no tragedy at all
so here come the minor players
speakers of fate and wine
tricksters of the scene and carriers of the faith
summoned actors to weep, to clap, to lead horses to their trough

so here we are
actors and play writes madly scribbling our lines in empty theater houses
so here we are
standing on street corners passing flyers to the wind, the announcement of our next act
so here we are
refusing to cry uncle despite the lack of breath in our lungs
so here we are
martyrs still breathing and daring the world to read our word