Stagefright

It is the brush

that still grows

and slowly dies

from the hazel

string of fire.

Like a violin,

it fills the entire room

with electrity

red-hot, oxygen

making it grow

stronger and stronger.

Until a burst of thunder

claps for an encore.

It must seem to not seem

like that ream

of paper, lying

on the carpet, blank

and waiting for a soul

to touch it with

his fingers

and poke it

with a pencil, and

then, again and

again.

Until he meets

himself in the middle,

and cries out

Halleluia!

It's over,

the flames

disappearing

behind the curtain.

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