I am the actor upon the stage,
Who through the sparkling, golden rift,
I extend a hand to the lady leagues away,
Seated in the second row.
Her face composed with pale white flesh,
And two sapphire eyes whose worth to me rivals diamonds.
And with soft , sweet repose a dainty hand,
Held in mimic to my own.
Oh to hold that fair, sweet maiden,
To breath in the fragranced hair;
And yet the gap from stage to viewer,
I know not if I can bare
So I stand there at the edge,
Scripted words slipping from my lips,
With the spotlight as my shield,
From the darkness on all sides pressing in .
She moves not once that fair sweet hand ,
Which , to me and only me, she extends,
To me and only me that fair sweet hand.
And then it drops, as if gravity itself pulls it to her side,
And a frown of discontent looses its ties,
But in the span of a breath her face loses its emotion,
Replaced with a dolls smile, which her fan,
As a butterfly’s wings flutters up to hide.
Rise does she in exquisite fabric,
And to the exit light steps fade.
With a click the lights falter,
Allowing the dark to reign.
The curtain drops with a muffled apology,
And surrendered are dreams from me
Of the actor and the maiden.
Partners ripped apart mid-scene