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a screenplay to your self parodic production,

i reread the scripture; not because of an enjoyment of poignancy,

but in hopes the eyestrain will rewrite the ending somehow.

you answer the phone to every curtain call,

but no costume can conceal the poète maudit 

obscured amongst the thespians.

i opt to watch from the wings,

it's my own inconspicuous effort to maintain anonymity

the honouree perched in garnet suede-

dazed in a fawning for the stage-lit martyr.

blindsided spectators follow a plotline of opacity

while my overactive imagination chases cascades of performance cosmetics,

braving the soul of limerence underneath.

there's a satiric irony in begging to be seen,

yet fearing the idea of showcasing yourself for all to see.