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There’s a song on the air with a ‘love you’ line,
and a face in a glass,
and it looks like mine.”

(#ThrowbackThursday – old writing of mine)

The Play’s the Thing
by me
originally written in August 2000

Sometimes I am wistful for that girl from Neverland,
she was a constant source of who knows what
a night owl in the streets

Flapping her cape of mysteries at that corner cafe,
enticing pass-her-bys with blueberry scones,
on lazy daisy Sunday mornings

Music was always playing from painted front windows,
and she would dance ,
without a modicum of modesty.

with her toe ring and a towel around her dripping hair
another dye job
wet pastels on her fingers

Never frightened by the thunder that echoed,
not until the fist of dissolution hit her,
square in the teeth.

And she’s expected it even though the audience gasped in surprise.

Her faulty exits and tears,
they were all behind the curtain,
she was held together by plot and acts,
someone elses’s interpretation.

Letting the script of her life erase what she meant it to do.

But she knew how to throw a dinner party,
and she knew how to romance the crowd.

She knew every trick and difficult maneuver to try,
to get all the oohs and ahhs,
just one more time.

But they never applauded her when she ran off,
they hissed and threw stones at the glass box she’d cut open,
christening her the villain of another overwrought melodrama.

The whore,
the Scarlett L,
the homewrecker.

Bitch of it all.

She used to be the virgin,
the heroine,
his sweetest thing.

A once upon a time.

But endings are never what they say
in storybooks,
those happy ever afters are a six pack of lies.

The kingdom fingers have to point at someone in the end.

To sacrifice,
to crucify,
to bang and blame.

And maybe the days past seem rosier from this position,
distance has a way of turning mud puddles,
into rainbows.

This wishing to be is just an image recreated,
a fictionalized version of the way ,
she used to be

But those moments of mayhem,
of magic,
she was glorious then.

All wrapped up in her strongest breaths of fire.

I miss that on days that blend too much into thin air,
with the coffee breaks,
and the status recommendations.

The carpools,
the lunch boxes,
newspaper drives.

But you know I can reach to that back of me,
switch it on,
the music.

It is always there to spin me around.

Awaken the ever elusive ingénue,
the one,
the used to be.

Heaven :: The Psychedelic Furs

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