The Poet

"The Poet"


MAIDEN:

Craning over this scroll, quill engraved in my palm,
my heart sometimes ponders if they’ll ever read this.
(Holds scroll out before her; throws it to the floor)
My heart sometimes ponders if they’ll ever appreciate
the works I’ve bled for. With hands wounded by the
thorns and roses I write of so religiously!
(Takes rose from the table; walks around stage)
They inhabit my imagination, in a land where sparrows
sing forever. Will these words cling to their minds
once they’ve drank them or will they be ablated and
melt into the years? Do they see words and love them
with a passion greater than the sun hath for the moon?
Do they love them as I do, dreaming of them always?
Yet diction’s symmetry is so foreign to them that I
doubt it is possible for them to love each word, each
syllable, as I have. Will these words slink into their
anguished souls to heal the sorrow breeding within
them or will they slither into the stars and be
forgotten? They will be forgotten, I assure you. They
will be cast to Pluto’s kingdom for all eternity and
lose themselves among the demon’s wandering young, for
words have no meaning anymore. No definition! No
definition! They are nothing to anyone but the poet,
is this not the truth? Is this not so? It must be, for
they are all blind. They are illiterate, scornful
swine!
(Pushes books off of table, onto the floor)
Or are they more enlightened than they seem? Perhaps
they do understand. Perhaps they are not what they
seem, as things so often what we take them for. Do you
feel the mad dancing of their hearts when these silver
words seep into their heads? Do they feel each step,
each beat, each throttle of the body to the music
ringing silently from their books? My heart sometimes
ponders. My heart sometimes wonders if the life of a
poet is worth living at all.
(Exits stage; close curtain)


- THE END -








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