The grand stage, filled with
insatiable needs to produce, the round shape
gone flat in recent shows, discourse
receding, much like the hairlines
of the writers of the script, headlines
receding away from the bait, the fish
that swims around the seats, yet do not flop
where there is no water, only the directors
flop and squeal to a scramble, creating a
panic: an abundance of rambles, their source of
excitement turned into shambles; they must
return to times of excitement, times of when
the script created buzz, lost in the fuzz
of the dust left behind; the decline that coincide
with the sharing of the pie amongst the actors; they act
for the show, the script that flows with the minds
of the actors in kind, a product more refined
over time, a rise in ability to shine, much to the ire
of the writers of the script; they have a story
to convey, a change relayed by the actors that play, storylines
followed from years of decay, a
new direction at display, yet quality does not flow with
chaos, a powerful resource gradually replaced by
the growth of the characters at play, a maturity that
disobeys the original play, disobeys the rough draft conjured by
the first script, a perfect depiction of raw thought, the
source of old ideals, when it was most ideal for
the writers at hand, the fingerprints of identity
they evolved from, yet became a shell of what they perceive
to be the peak of their prime, from a time
nostalgic far beyond the reach, unable to be touched
by the actors that play, yet the writers of the script
have access to excess; they were once the fish that swam
around the stage at the peak of excitement, flopping
with giddy delight, when waves were tsunamis
that drowned the actors around, waves that settled
with lackluster fanfare, years of water being drained
to a cough, a lack of moisture to wet the appetites
of the storm; the pressure grew too warm, a lack
of rain to ease the pain, a lack of clouds to shroud
the skies, a fate for the faces of the play to celebrate; a steady
rise in leverage, left neglected by the actors of old, creaks
formed along the skin, left to a schism; a shift
left the floors to crack, an illusion of direction
shifted within the pages of the script, a crumb
left unswept, growing within the cracks left intact
until it began to infect: the wooden planks
that kept the actors' footing; a minor slip
created a major spill, unmopped and barricaded
until it came to life, infecting the actors who cannot stay away
from the source of decay, an abundance of delay
to treat the spread, starting a war of pointed
fingers, the sharpest nails owned by the writers of the script, inked
in to conclude the scene, with the aim to cause a quake, a
shattering of identity and range of the face, stunted
of growth, pushed for a reboot, to a time
before the cracks, when the waves were big, when
splashes of water rained on the stage, a flood
used to feed the fishes, swimming on the graves
of the actors at play, voices drowned out
by the script, replaced by limbs on a string, attached
to the fingertips of the writers of the script; to
assert control and restore tradition, from a time
that drowns the opposition, drowns actors who cannot swim, the same
actors that delivered a story, but failed to bring excitement: an energy
addictive, yet vital to the bloodline of the directors
at hand, the hand that draws scenes
for the writers to recreate, the steady drop
of willing actors replaced by headless bodies, bodies
attached to string, souls of actors
served in concession stands, deep underwater
for the fish to eat, an excitement: reminiscent of
generation's past, a simpler time when actors were only
characters to be consumed, characters to be
fed to the fishes, a perceived famine made real and
treated as such, a trust broken like the wooden floors, patched
with bandages and creaky with weight, a fate
inevitably sealed to create a fall, to create
another spill, a cycle repeated
for the sake of entertainment.