the curtain rises
the spotlight consumes us
our hearts are racing
our pulses pound in our temples
we're hiding on the stage
hiding behind the director's masks
to ambush an unsuspecting audience
to capture them
in a web
of their own mythologies
with tremors in our throats
barely able to see our target
we frantically fumble for our arrows
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the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
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for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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