The sun is overcast by ceiling.
Reeling, peeling back layers
like calendar pages,
I rage,
then descend from my stage on stairs.
No audience vents its intents on the players.
The curtain closes on rows of closed chairs.
Exit the theater.
Meter footsteps decrepit:
right, left,
right, left it
alone for so long its barely a home
any more.
My feet don't belong on this floor.
Prints that gust blustered,
frustrated state of affairs,
when I step and the dust hits the air.
The North corridor stores the shipwrecks,
and artifacts black I've sacked from Aztecs.
Tribal Kenya, Sumer, Yang Zi...
If you listen close you can hear their ghosts begging to be free.
A violin's thin notes float from the music room.
It was strung of faerie sinews, and it plays out of tune.
I'm nearing it, fearing to see it alive,
but it'd stopped playing by the time I arrived.
Outside,
flagstones moan in dead earth.
Arid, daring a plant to grant birth
to a single shoot, may it root and cower
until the land tills its sands and demands flowers devoured.
This dead place faces a sky divided, reeling,
where
even
The sun is overcast by ceiling.
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