Sharethread October 12, 2016

Don't Smell the Flowers/ The Ultimate Critic

With letters hesitantly placed upon the page, The virgin field besmirched with curlicues of black, An actor pauses, steps onto the Stage; and in the dark a rifle bolt pulled firmly from its' rack.

The page, now marred, now has a purpose too. The author commits, setting precedent. Conclusion yet the writer does eschew- And works to get on with the main event.

A gently bowed and slowly sweeping arm, encompasses those who read these serried words. Statements of leading depth, intoned with calm, And conclusions, rife with bass, chopped into thirds.

The rifleman does listen, with a smile offset, nestled in the darkness, out of the minds of all. He bides his time, relaxing, true drama he'll beget, The bullet he will fire will be like casting ebon pall.

The Actors pur-sed lips work with disdain, He hesitates with beauty within his diatribe. Then off again, in fervored rant, in anger and in pain, Describing worldly maladies to a flourish with a jibe.

The words and letters pace from left to right, As if time itself had started from the West. And as one reads one feels a subtle flight- A lifting of the heart, down deep within the chest.

His eyes are lifted, gaze beyond the stars. A shaken fist does rail against the very gods themselves. The sniper smirks, remembering the Actors dull memoirs, Placing irritation back upon his minds ranked shelves.

The woven words, the body-language hands, The Actors' voice does echo in the minds' theatric hall. And in the black, an elbow shifts, another mind runs plans, To counter whats before him, to still the rampant gall.

What insolence, what arrogance, does the scene before him show. To take anothers' work and to mangle it so well. He pulls the bolt and checks the round, then slides it fore to stow- The round he will be sending will make of his skull a shell.

The readers smile, the crowd does clap, the metronomic pace- The Actor in his element, the sniper in his place. The tempo set just like the stage, the mind is busy, like the page, And all the author has to do is release purpose from the cage.

The play completes, the curtains fall, the clapping goes too long. A shoulder moves the rifles' butt, a rictus sits beside. His breathing slows to half-time, chasing the bands' own song, The perfect show for the man below would be finally denied.

The curtains part like thighs and relief glows from Centerstage, The crowd do stand and pound their palms 'til numbness sets them still. The bowing stops, the rest come out, the sniper set his guage- The writer pauses, mind and hand, with a lifted, feathered, quill.

There she is! The stagehand shy, with trepidatious step, Does walk out with face hidden amongst the burst of Orchid blooms The breath does catch, the flowers passed, the Actor feels his rep- He bends to smell the flowers...and the snipers rifle booms.

The orchids suddenly turn red, and in the chaos that ensues- The sniper makes his getaway 'midst the morbid and concerned. His girlfriend would come home tonight and would spill in shock her views, How the Actors' head exploded -
and was no longer Bastards' Muse.

/r/OCPoetry Thread