Such a fascination!
A line or less
and the story was done,
we'd leave the cinema
with dreamy eyes,
maybe a sense of relieve
for exiting that parallel world.

We'd step fiercely,
a heroe to be,
can't you see?,
underneath the costume.

But then the end
comes in front of us,
its symphonical pomp
is a seed of fear
and we grow a human size,
a small one.

A cheap tape and the line
stutters the end the end the end.
One by one, all characters
in our own story
desert the scene and
we roam in a parallel world
of unfamiliar faces
where memories lack of proof.

There we stand or not so,
heroes of loss, on our own,
and a line or less, the end,
overlaps a swirl
of autumn leaves.

(You may all leave, now:
there are no credits
in one-man-size productions.)