Empty Figures on an Empty Stage

Spirits with invisible walls between.
They cannot connect.
Thinly-veiled hatrid is the standard.
Craving intimacy from that which is despised.

Seething just below the surface.
Contempt spills forth like lava.
While smiling.
Sniping.
Pretending.
Grieving.

Destroyers of souls.
Grim reapers.
Black holes.

Portuguese Men of War.
Reaching out long stinging tentacles to capture others.
Consuming what they catch.
To keep satiated and afloat.
In the shallows of the ocean of life.

Holding on with one ancient, weathered, frayed, fragile rope.
Stinging tentacles fray the rope daily.
Until one day nothing remains but a weak, yellowing thread.

Lives get 'super-sized'.
Building bigger and bigger houses.
More room to be mad in.
More stuff more stuff more stuff, please.
To drown out the sounds of fear.
To fill the void.
Chinese food cliche...too soon hungry for more.

Esslin's "Theater of the Absurd" in the flesh.
Observing, Beckett and Ionesco would scribble notes furiously.
Exit the King.
A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions in the making.
Merchants of Venice.


© 2009 Patricia Fletcher.