A herald’s cry for being heard
In a world of silence
An ode to sacrificing your existence
To those who don’t honor the offering
What is a page
But a collection of ideas from the poet
Words placed this way and that
Which anyone can do
But cannot do
What is to be a poet
But to lament over life’s destinies,
Jumbled letters the ancients will read
A rambling of musings
What is inspiration
Except that which whispers away on the wind
And is gone forever
A cursed existence
What is a thought
But to be here one moment
And vanished the next?
Delmare’s poem was probably the best thing about this play— and she’d written it, not Marcus, thank the ancestors. If it had been one of his poems we’d be here a century and an age.
Alana withdrew a stage sword from a scabbard on her hip and cried, “Leave this place, foul beast, and do not cast upon the fair Empress a curse that may blight her beauty!”
Alana was a little too eager with the sword, because she whacked Delmare in the face with it. “Ow! Hey!” Delmare sourly rubbed the side of her head.
“Sorry— uh, I mean— be gone!” Alana chased the entity of darkness away. Opal and Ez pretended to flee. The stage lighting became warmer, and Delmare wandered off stage right. She passed her husband Stefan on the way out, who gave a loud smack to her ass as they crossed paths. It wasn’t behind the sight of the curtains, so the entire audience saw it.
Delmare gave a yelp, and Stefan smirked. From the audience, Emma gave a cat call.
“That wasn’t in the script!” Marcus flustered, outraged.
“The entity of comedy, who is also married to the entity of darkness!” Takahashi ad-libbed, to make up for Stefan’s quip. “Accompanied by the entity of movement!”
Stefan strode onto center stage, wearing his hockey jersey from the game a few weeks ago. Nobody was following the dress code around here. After him, Marcus’ uncle Grant breakdanced onto the middle of the stage, doing a crab walk before performing a windmill that ended in a power pose, his legs in the air.
Stefan pushed him over, and Grant flopped to the floor. The audience laughed.
“Hey, guys. What’s up?” Stefan wasn’t even bothering to try and speak Early Modern English. I respected him for it.
