James NicholsRain-grey days are the worst for his presentation.
Weather´s distraction steals his thoughts
as it stills his soul.
Most days the others ignore him, busy with their own productions.
He is the only one who reads, the others seem to sit and speak softly
to a polite and punctual audience.
So he writes daily:
terse exclamations of love, heated arguments with angels and demons,
and even sad love songs, but he never sings.
He only reads with a broken voice that mirrors his heart.
He´s alone today with her and she´s ignoring him
as he finishes his latest work,
"...in eternity, love´s a constant."
Silence, the passive killer of hope, the enemy of every performer,
ensues as he folds the paper and tucks it into his coat.
The rain taps lightly about his feet as he kneels and kisses
the cold granite headstone of the only true fan he ever had.
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