Daydream At the Macky:
A lonely Man sits next to his friend, daydreaming in the theater.
A second orchestra plays music beneath the stage.
Light bounces off the brass knobs of the instruments, dancing across the walls.
Illuminated faces of the musicians contrast the dark.
His friend watches the band, the conductor, music being created.
He can’t keep his eyes off Her.
The Harpist looks up and away to the very last row in the back of the house.
Calm, bored, waiting for the piano to lead Her in.
Stage lights make Her red hair shimmer.
Absolutely perfect in this moment.
She must be dreaming.
He checks His pocket watch.
It appears to be functioning more than perfectly.
He grabs His friend by the hand — A puzzled look from the adjacent seat.
He stops the watch.
He stops the show.
His friend looks around the room.
People in their seats, motionless.
Musicians frozen in their chairs, bows raised and ready, waiting for the next strike.
His friend looks to Him, bewildered.
He looks only to Her.
He lets go of His friend’s hand.
His eyes are fixed – bewildered. Frozen in time.
He stands and makes His way to the stage.
The musicians look different from back here.
The pianist looks tense, the flautist looks red in the face.
A blinding light in his eyes.
He sweeps it away with a careless hand.
She sits with Her back turned to Him — frozen, still stunning.
He draws patterns in Her hair with beams of light.
The sheen fades as His canvas ebbs away,
Ocean waves stripping away the beach.
He takes Her by the hand.
A bewildered look in Her eyes — Waking from a daydream.
He lifts Her by the hand from Her seat and winks, coyly.
“We have all the time in the world.”
Her spirit dances.
He leads Her off, far away,
past the curtains, past the stage.
Past the chairs and out the door.
Past the corner, past the store.
Past the living, past the dead.
Places further than can be said.
Lays Her down by the sycamore trees,
There is no wind, there is no breeze.
There is no light, there is no sound.
No more life left to compound.
By the banks they share a kiss,
Frozen water turns to mist.
Never once He leaves Her side.
He is Her Prince, She is His Bride.
Frozen here, nowhere in time,
They share the world, Alone, sublime.
But He knows, He knows, it isn’t fair,
To keep the One with titian hair,
His Harlequin, His Scamp, His Queen,
His Only girl for things obscene,
All to Himself – trapped — within a dream.
He feels the sun, the pull of moon,
The cosmic clock will soon consume,
Her life, Her ways, Her glow, Her spark,
Time turns all light into dark.
& loss of Her He could not bare,
frozen, blank — a cold cold stare.
They walk back slow, They take Their time,
In this world, so pure, sublime.
He leads Her back, to the stage,
To Her prison, to Her cage.
To the life that’s Hers’ to live,
Even to Her future kids.
He takes Her back, to Her chair,
Lipstick red, like Her hair.
One last Kiss,
One last Time,
No moment missed to make Her mine.
Sits Her down, in the stands,
He slowly drops Her nimble hand.
Frozen with a look so sweet,
Clementine, my rose to eat.
There you sit, and will remain.
In this moment – trapped — in My brain.
The music starts.
Slightly shaken, He looks around the amphitheater.
His friend stares intently at the conductor, the pianist, the strings.
He looks only to Her.
A flustered look upon Her face,
She looks slightly out of place.
She hears Her cue from the pianist
And quickly regains Her composure.
She tilts Her harp and starts to play,
Rounding up a wandered stray,
From things unreal, to things unseen,
Was it all a dream, within a dream?
NSV — edited 12/19/13