I was asked to present, well, dance,
tales of an ancient warrior,
and dicing the air, sword in hand,
summon all of my ancestors.
Looking out, I spoke a language
of unknown history and lore,
humbled by this chance, this standage,
to practice like never before.
My sword aglow, orange and fierce,
I threw my feet above my head,
thinking only to kick and pierce
everything that I had read.
And when my role was done and played
I turned towards the other parts,
and with bated breath, watched and prayed
against the errors in their hearts.
Then a friend from my shrouded past,
much smaller than he used to be,
arrived, the final act at last,
beckoning us to stop and see.
Still of nimble mind, sharp, and strong,
I thought he might like to perform,
but he came to speak older songs,
and run squarely against the norm.
Needing something tawdry to clasp,
the audience started to leave,
unable to hear, or quite grasp,
the gravity of his beliefs.
But the words were his yoke to share,
to pull us away from the stage,
delivered with a dragon stare,
and extort our forgotten rage.
He asked, “why do you hide yourself
like Zorro, disguising your fraud?
Remember, when all is over,
those who cover their mouth, eat God.”
— ❧ —
More like “The Performance”
“The Performance” is part of a growing collection of poems—you can find others like it and more, here.
