Theatre of One Spectator

Through the dust of curtains, through old velvet,
A stranger’s face drinks the dregs of a role.
My gesture – broken, forever withered,
The fierce pain hidden beneath the greasepaint.

I am in the stalls, in the thick darkness,
A spectator lost between the rows.
I look at the stage – at the false formation,
Where the exit has been tightly shut before us.

I was molded by accidental fingers,
Cut from fabrications, scraps, and desires.
I am a mannequin abandoned in a word,
In the oblivion of faded, vain hopes.

I am but a space, a gaping abyss
Between the one I dreamed of being in my sleep,
And the puppet assembled today
By hands that have become strangers to me.

Between what the heart longed to shine with –
That pure radiance which knows no boundaries –
And this phantom, woven from decay
Amidst squares and paper towers.

One single pause, frozen between two,
Unknown, lonely in every drama.
Around the walls – a merciless prison,
Where the world is dissolved in this whimsical frame.

There is no “I.” Only the screen flickers.
A gray, tart smoke crawls into my lungs,
To erase the contour, the likeness, and the plan –
Forever becoming a muffled ash.