Pick Your Poison


As the stage lights dim
the chatter swiftly thins out;
you will find me here,
remembering that I've been meaning to send them all letters,
each one carefully worded
and smelling of amber oils and stale cigarette butts.
The actors take their positions all around
as the story unfolds;
life has a funny way
of changing most profoundly
in the blink of an eye,
and yet the world seems so still
when I gaze with a careful sight.
Such an odd day,
to have a flashback kick in to full swing
at this tiny local theater
behind the bakery and to the left.
Things begin to glimmer
and the laughter bubbles up;
I am in a room that is on top of the world,
looking down
towards freedom,
though sometimes glancing back
because I might one day return.
The players play and then bow and we leave,
holding only memories to explain these acts.
I am legion,
host to many plot lines that are left to plot my lines
as well as several thespians
that dance their dance of swords
the same way that I fence my reflections:
with one retort too many and a solid wit just behind the eyes.