A gothic drama
Night enacts; its taut dark plot,
Lone moon polishes!

When Romeo chose poison,
He chose to die asleep,
And painlessly join Juliet.
Their promise still to keep.

When Juliet chose to follow him,
A dagger in her breast,
Embrace could never feel so sweet,
As Death's gentle arrest.

The Reaper kissed them kindly,
And took them by the hand,
And led them far away from here,
To find a better land.

They left us here to ponder,
Faces white as winter snow,
Why lovers couldn't live to tell,
The tale of long ago.

the curtains come up, lights blaring; audience watches as you spit your lines to the world. composed of those we know, the rows of seats are full of people who judge and deceit and it's more of a trial than a show. it's a script, each word careful to convey emotions that aren't real. you're not real. we're not real. this isn't real. you're acting, tears hidden behind a mask crafted through years and years of work, you don't want to give to give in yet. by act two you're tired, exhausted and ready to pack in. you stray from your lines, the director staring at you from backstage. you're not supposed to do that. you're supposed to spew the words from the page and bite back arguments. you're a puppet. feelings? not real. teardrops fall on your script, but they could be drops of liquor because you're drunk in the thought that you can escape. you can't. you're trapped. love holds you down, nails your heart to the stage. crucifixion before your very peers and they don't know your pain because it's just an act and you are an actor, acting out the things you've been told to say. the directions you are forced to follow. it's not real and neither are you, you repeat that as you fall asleep and it's on your tongue when you wake up. you wash your fash, using water to splash away the memories of what once was and what will never be again. when your teacher asks if you're religious you bite your tongue, holding back curses that god left us. we're alone and we're gone and we're sheep being hurled into a pen that was designed for convicts. we're criminals against mother nature, poisoning and polluting and killing life's lungs with our dreams that should have died long ago. when she asks, "are you happy?" i smile and i grit my teeth, forcing out words from a script i revised in my head. i'm happy and i'm fine and i'm real. the blood in my veins pumps faster and faster, emotions rising and falling with the beat of death's drums. are we alone? we're abandoned, a ship sailing the seas of uncertainty. we craft swords out of lies, anger, and betrayal and in the end, we plunge it through our own hearts. the curtain closes, end scene.

ACT ONE.
Aren't we tied?
Pulling strings,
To make us smile.
A deed of ease,
We struggle to do.
Are we acting?
Or are we true?

ACT TWO.
Hello, Goodbye.
Words we say,
Just to be nice.
An empty void.
A gift, no card.
Are we acting?
Or are we on guard?

A Trojan horse. As Cleopatra in a carpet
Enters hidden on a breath
Incubus; droplet alien drawn in,
sets about its work; brooding job to do.

Awaken a little stiff, sweat and grog
A scratchy throat; a swollen lymph
Shower power, rinse and coffee makes well.
No. Twas not to be this false alarm, I’d grabbed.

Working fast now, growing, flooding
like snow melt hitting parched desert.
Seeping into cracks; changing blood-scapes.
Reprographic virus; dissociative – to thrive.

A false pardon was granted this morning
Cruel deception, such as played on Nick Bottom
teased mind into belief; a surge of relief,
Just early morning rust; blow away sleep dust.

I am sick of it now, the sickness; the bug.
My alien visitors; my too close encounter
making things smell wrong – like vinegar
and my nose pop as each side turns to unblock.

As big screen drama – epic plays out in my mind.
The white cells; the soldiers wiping out alien-kind
Dualling MacDuff and MacBeth in Dunsinane cell
Waging battle within me; my man-flu living hell.

©pofacedpoetry Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) all right’s reserved

a flawed character in a musical
filled with ear-piercing songs
and the craze of beer and wine
and uncomplicated mess

despised and alone
creating mischief while no one but
the audience look on
and creating drama from the driest of
scenes

casted to be
cast out of the limelight
it slyly adds itself to the plot
wrecking death and horror in its wake
the backdrop a mess of red jewels

internally bleeding out lines
that attack the audience as they are
handed the ***** scripts
and they listen in glee to the
dead, screeching violins

it dances on the stage
clacking of tap shoes a sweet,
satisfying sound that claws at the ear
the heart savouring all there is

the rain breaks through the roof
of the bloodied theatre
****** under dark clouds
as eggs of gold are thrown and
splatter in a flourish and a bow

the clapping of hands as the
orchestra plays the dirges and
distasteful tunes
a spectacle for the ages
and it sinks backstage in
preparation for its next tour