seraphemera (seraphemera) wrote,

in the spiral of the coming dawn
we will not be afraid

come storm nor heaven nor pleated death
we will walk tall into the fires
that have been set as traps
and lead our foes to to the dance
that celebrates a false victory

but within the line that decides
what is the written word of the ruling class
and the forgotten realms of the murdered and mass-buried
is a borderland
along which we need not tip-toe
but sing and dance toward a grave
that is neither decay nor catastrophe
but a well-planned ending
to the theatre of the morning
that we have lassoed into our own devices

where we will walk through the trap door
providing an effect that seems impossible for the stage
then we will leave the audience to give a standing ovation
to an empty curtain fall

and as the roar refuses to die
and the consternation drifts into the lobby
(that the faces of the players remained in work
and refused to set free the captives
to return to their lands of play)
and the voices call
"we who were willingly locked beneath the darkness
only with the understanding that release
was a given"
(painted by the brush
of all the entertainments from nights before)
while we,
shedding costumes
to become the invisible other
who rehearsed no lines
but the lives we lead
who will not look back
nor over our shoulders
without thought
or care
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