I often wonder about dying.
The stage lures and terrifies,
Fire and ice on the same night.
Play it safe and finish,
play it with a flare,
shame or fanfare?
Will there be a dress rehearsal?
Will angels from above prompt me
if I drop a line or miss a cue?
Will there be time? Time
to learn my blocking? Time
to practice lines with friends?
If I hesitate will I be snatched
away to audition for the
Devil's dance with the dead?
Long decades of conflict,
complication, crisis, and resolution
are essential to pull off a proper dying.
Anything shorter than three acts
would be undignified. Who ever heard
of a hero expiring in the first act?
What about applause and curtain calls?
Angels fancy encores don’t they? Perhaps
Hamlet’s soliloquy: “To be or not to be.”
It’s enough to frighten one to death,
this idea of dying before the chance
to practice and master the part.
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