The last monologue
My days pass slowly like serene waves
And no curtain opens before me
I feel my body caught in a chain covered with rings
I see my beginning coming near the end
A monologue staging his last act
Holding his skull with blood-soaked hands
Reading your poem to the empty theater chairs
Dropping one last tear hiding the shame
Not a breath could heal such a wound
What is the use of words?
Of a piece that will never be read
Will the poor artist die with his art?
Maybe someday someone will find out
And thus acknowledged, he shall no more die
💙
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário