Maybe the Theater’s Empty


Will ancient prayers appease young gods?
Or should we write a modern verse?
Who answers when we sinners call
To ask forgiveness? Put on hold

Again while they wean out the frauds.
Recording plays: press one to curse
Your enemies. Press two for all
Requests. I wait while hell grows cold.

My line goes dead. What are the odds?
This life slips past from bad to worse.
Still drunk on last year’s alcohol,
I vow to win all they withhold.

I take the stage. No one applauds.
Tough audience. I’m unrehearsed.
I’ll stay, though, till the curtain falls,
Performing both to young and old,
To jaded gods who’ve seen it all,
My whispered lines a life prayed bold.


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