The Performance

The curtain rises,
Swishing its many disguises,
Every face ever worn
Ever since you were born.

When audience's show
They sit down, stand up and go,
In and out of your life
Like your mother and wife.

The music is strange
Like your costume change,
One minute a rhapsody,
The next a parody.

I wish I could pretend
The dream could never end
But the boards you tread
Are only in my head.

A little more make-up perhaps
To hide the missed lines and gaps,
Such swagger and finesse
In your childhood sequined dress.

To whom are you playing?
The crowds that are beying?
Ignore them, my dear,
Dying is only a fear.

Critics can be cruel
To such a pretentious fool,
I can't always be my best
When sincere and undressed.

They'll never know
That you've fallen or how low,
Just be what you want to be
Because I know you are me.

The curtains shut,
The audience tut tut...
"Overacting!" they shout
As we try to get out,

But hey! I'll dream some more,
Life or death for the encore?
Artists don't have to conform,
But please heart......just perform.

© RJVHorton 2015

"hey sweetie, how was your day?"
and she replied she was okay
but there was something on her mind
someone she tried so hard to find
she thought he could fix her
change her for the better
but he didn't

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees
Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
On the burnished disk of the marigold,
Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun
When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

Is it your face
that adorns the garden?

Is it your fragrance
that intoxicates this garden?

Is it your spirit
that has made this brook
a river of wine?



Hundreds have looked for you
and died searching
in this garden
where you hide behind the scenes.



But this pain is not for those
who come as lovers.

You are easy to find here.

You are in the breeze
and in this river of wine.

In the creases and folds
I find the one.
He dusts me off and
puts me on a shelf.
I see him walk by
a thousand times.
I bury him again.
I'm having trouble recognizing
which of us is made of bronze -
The penny that you don't collect
'cause it's face is always turned
toward the ground.
But every hand that ever
touched me was your hand.
My skin is full of scars
from fingertips.
Sometimes I think I'll never
be warm again.
But how could you forget
a burn like that?

Forget about London, forget about LA
Or some sunny exotic island you visited last May
And flashback to that winter of young hopeful romance
Of our days strolling around the cobbled streets of France
Key into the Seine, our love sealed by the locks
Feeding bread crumbs to pigeons as they come by the flock
Lourdes's faith and divinity approves of our entwined hearts
Cannes opens its arms for our new united start

But London sticks to your mind
And now you live in LA
Surfing and lying in the open sun
The sunlight is your summer sleigh
Concrete streets and tall palm trees
There's no more chilly winter breeze

And back in France dies our last chance
Didn't you hear? They're removing the locks
They weigh down the bridge, puts people in danger
I guess love can't always last forever
Sometimes the burden becomes too much
And you burn everything that you touch
The time has come to extinguish the flames
And that's the end of our little French game

I am looking in the mirror
every passing day,
and the only thing I can see,
is your absence.