LINES OF THOUGHT © 2013
In life, when you stop performing,
You will cease to be useful to the scene you try to appease.
The masks you wear, one by one, will fall,
And in the natural strokes of time,
You will be just another shadow in vain.
Erased from the canvas, corrupted by artifice,
Forgotten in universal colours, without sacrifice.
The tears, they flow like blurred ink,
Dissolving the image you created, already disfigured.
And the mucus that insists on flowing from your nose,
Wiped on the sleeve of a torn shirt,
That the cold, empty handout never wanted to give,
Leaves you at the bottom of the stairs on a shining Sunday.
Meanwhile, in the parallel life that unfolds,
The bus stop line,
Occupied by those who do not surrender.
A high-powered vehicle, oblivious to the chaos around,
Like one who ignores the invisible struggle, forgetting love.
And so, between performing and being,
You linger on a threshold where truth seems to fade.
But deep down, in the colours life insists on painting,
Lies the echo of a being that can still find its place.