The Player and the Hoar

Tonight, I am going to a play rehersal for Theatre North, for they are having trouble with the set. My own play, Once Upon a Matress, is coming along. It has just been a very weird life lately.

The phone rings
like a siren destroying my hope.
They’re calling me away
because he was such a dope.
I start to get up from trueness:
a bed with a friend.
I take the last sip of water
when it turns to alcohol again.
The steps lead down to him:
the perfect user to use.
I want to forget; it is not that I love.
It is more that I amuse.
I walk into the mud room:
the final beat of regret.
Blood whispers to me to live,
and I just want to forget.
You give me a hug:
a catalyst to the thoughts I obtain.
I turn the doorknob slowly―
nothing I haven’t given.

Sit down in the truck
and take a deep breath.
I want to stare at you all night;
my heart hopes in darkness.
I just want to be whole.
I want to know what is real.
Darkness seems to dissolve light
along with everything that I feel.

Then, I think of her; I cringe―
How much I want to yell
at the top of my lungs,
“Come on, we can all tell!”
One thing I have learned
that you should not count
your eggs, even after they hatch.
I close the truck door.
Why is it I can’t cry?
Maybe, there really is no more,
like a puppet, I grow banal.
I’m sick of the player and hoar.

Shine your love on me.
I need a beacon to beseech.
I need to become whole.
It is always out of reach.
I now sit, questioning,
should I really dial the phone
to call her like a siren―
I really don’t want to be alone.