Critique Of A Winter Tree

   

 

A wooden thespian dramatically

enters the bleak stage,
playing the closing scene,
uncharacteristically.

Baring all, it splinters

the panoramic with an

air-shattering illusion.
A skeletal hand reaching

towards a godless sky, trembling...

delivering sparse monologue.

Page upon page of script.

(this show has many layers)

“Brainstem scribble
in a doodle-delicate mist.
Naked, waiting, green.

I see (wo)man as me. Not
a carbon copy but close.”

Directed by shivering sunlight.
Produced by freezing rainfall.
The theatre of the absurd.
 
This ‘one-off’ performance,
melts haunting afterimages

upon my icy retinas.

Leaves a fading echo.

Encore!