M. Shepard

The stage is set to rip the wings from a butterfly. The stage is set. Don't forget to breathe. Between the lines if the whole world dies, then it's safe to take the stage. These graves will stretch like landing strips ----- hospitals: all dead museums. We won't have to be afraid anymore. The crowd is growing silent with the gathering storm. When the curtain falls and you're caught on the other side (just trying to keep up the act). We'll lie in the back of black cars, with the windows rolled up. Joining the procession of emptiness. If we say these words, it will be too late to take them back. So we hold our breath and fold our hands, like paper planes (and we're going to crash). We don't have to be alone ever again. There's a riot in the theater. Someone's standing the aisle, yelling that the murderers are everywhere and they're lining up, carving the M in your side. Pull the curtain back. Kill all the houselights. Pin the dress lotus flowers. The silk is spinning around and around, with the ceiling fan. I'm disappearing into the spotlight. I'm on display, with the butterfly and the scarecrow, with smiles like picket fences. You tie us all up and leave us outside. "That voice is silent now, the boat has sunk..." We're on our own but we're not going to run.