Theater of the Absurd, The Epilogue
Their end is all we have left to begin with
The Children without Histories sit in the empty theater seats
their faces perfectly sanitized of memory
the Humanities Director rehearses
inside their minds
his verses
pristine, manufactured
A red wheelbarrow shot up
on the room-size screen begs
to bleed rain
but it is not to be so
The Soul now excavated
is mute to the songless echoes
and the hack of tears stuck
in dry eyes
a beat up volkswagen with a bust of Beethoven
glued to the dashboard
where Jesus once sat
is coming over the hilly horizon
Tarot cards and ancient books flap a musical rhythm in the wind
and the artists are being called in
on an emergency
to paint the children some portraits.
The Children without Histories sit in the empty theater seats
their faces perfectly sanitized of memory
the Humanities Director rehearses
inside their minds
his verses
pristine, manufactured
A red wheelbarrow shot up
on the room-size screen begs
to bleed rain
but it is not to be so
The Soul now excavated
is mute to the songless echoes
and the hack of tears stuck
in dry eyes
a beat up volkswagen with a bust of Beethoven
glued to the dashboard
where Jesus once sat
is coming over the hilly horizon
Tarot cards and ancient books flap a musical rhythm in the wind
and the artists are being called in
on an emergency
to paint the children some portraits.
2 comments:
Tsk...this commentary bit sucks because one can't exactly see what they're commenting on.
I enjoy this Theatre of the Absurd so very much. It is children without history -- children without reference -- children without art.
And so, the magicians must be called in...to hide mystery within shadows, intrigue in each corner and nuance in smiles. Else all shall become silent when all is known and expected. No applause.
Well now, look who've I found! We're blogspot neighbors!
It's me, SimpleSarcasm from AP.
I will definitely be visiting this blog!
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