Dramatist’s Off Season

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The truth knows no other way to come.
When you’re on a gazeless run,
The world so small that you are past caring,
The further you float, senses trimmed away,
The truth calls you to return; insist you stay.

You stand in an apparently never revolving
But, all the same, an ever-evolving
Town in the centre of the central hills.
Put your arms in the air, look up to the falling rays
Of morning — look down, now, stare back and return the gaze

Of the halted traffic that watches your arms
Directed up at the sky, your eye
Sparkling against the darting rays.
Their worlds freeze and their genuine care
Is whether your sensibility’s there.

You leave my world in a transit rocket.
The ring of cloud dissolves into the untested air,
There is light, flashes and a boom to the engine.
The curtain falls with a whimper and a chill,
Lights go out on improvised pretending.



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