THE ACTOR

I am an actor. Stage lights dazzle.
The director
barks out instructions, tearing

the expectant silence
into shreds of meaning.
Fellow actors await

their cue, their time to shine,
become leading stars.
Competition is intense.

Time-worn boards creak
underfoot, woodworm-honeycombed.
Even the scenery has faded

into yellow-brown forest.
And we characters, we characters -
God! We are even more wooden today.

Voices too flat,
ridiculous
parodies, like drunkards

trying hard to pretend they're sober.
My costume
doesn't fit, constantly slips

from my shoulders.
Oh my, how the dream has crumbled!
Oh Caesar, how you elude me!

Striving, even in sleep,
to become you.
But your mannerisms defeat me.

Frustration abounds.
The betrayal I suffer
is wholly subjective.

Ambition, ambition,
I have exhausted myself with trying,
with agonising -

never quite good enough.
Let Brutus
plunge his dagger deep.

Let my demise, at least,
ride on mercurial wings
into resounding applause.

I am the actor
the Bard's pen defines, owns.
I am the blank page...


Dedicated to my son, Ayrton.