on stage

She glides onto the stage like a swan through water and even with closed eyes you can see the demons that haunt her. Dressed in black and agate and melancholy and lace, a veil of suffocating smoke always hiding her face. You watch the sorrowful story she carves with her toes, painting a world that is perpetually unfurling with woes. And piece by piece that smoke seeps into your lungs til you can feel every anguish that’s made her what she’s become. And for a split second you’ll forget it’s not you up on that stage. Because she’s cunning and she’s beautiful it’s so easy for her to assuage. She’ll tie silk ribbons to each and every bone in your ribcage and like a marionette doll she’ll try and force you onto that stage. She’ll try and force you to carve mountains with bruised and bloody toes, to convince you they’re not her’s, but rather your woes. And if you inhale this smoke she sends your way you’ll soon believe that it’s not her but you up on that stage.

Now you’re not sure if it happened over millennia or a split second but it’s as if that poison dancer never weld any weapon. There’s no trace of her smoke or her lace or her ribbons, and you’ve no recollection of the times you wanted to give in. Because there’s a new dancer on the stage and he’s golden and amber and makes you forget all souls tainted by misery and anger. And he’ll re-enact stories from Cleopatra to Juliet and recite every ballad and aphorism and epithet, and you’ll want so badly to get up off your seat. To waltz across the stars from Andromeda to Orion, to tip-toe across Delphinus and all the way to Chiron. And though it’s beautiful it’s the same old trick as before cause he wants you to believe this is it, nothing more. And I know he means well but darling you’ve got to remember that the stage isn’t for you, it was made for the dancer.

Cause you’re not up on that stage, no you’re the one sitting in the audience, observing and watching this eternal performance. And they’ll come and they’ll pass and you’ll always want to leave your throne – but emotions are ephemeral so you must let them dance alone.

By em

a sometimes poet, sometimes painter, always philosopher


  1. This is so beautiful, I love it! The closing paragraph holds so much power; I’d love to get your permission to share this on our Creative Space?

    If you’re interested, please email me or reply with a comment.

    Looking forward to hearing from you,


    Off Your Chest blog

    Liked by 1 person

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