PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Not one single man
was drawn to the stage.
He looked on
thinking his guile would
win the hearts of peoples pockets
but his livelihood lay there
in a cream colored box
on a stage that tasted like bile.
and a curtain,
that when it drew
billowed smoke of candor
of a once honest people.

And there,
the last of the back of a mans cloak
headed for the exit.

He bit his nails
and swallowed the dirt beneath them

With a tight, familiar grip
he wrapped his calloused hands
around his suitcase
and began to march off stage,
the click of his heels
echoing a sound of
lost redemption.

During this hour of the night
when the morning hadn't yet broke
he sit under a street lamp,
waiting.
A train of ants determined
to carry its prey
on their backs in unison
circled his feet;
each of them leaving behind
crumbs for their next victim.

"They are forward thinkers",
he thought.

The light above him
began to flicker.
And this he knew,
meant that the hours drew quickly,
no matter where.

He witnessed the sun
beating the dark
against the pavement.

The bus came for him
at the usual hour,
kicking the dirt beneath its tires
in his eyes and down his throat.
The taste akin to his youth,
which he now carried in a box.
With limbs and all.