The Silent Court

Interpret at your own will, writing is not defined to what the writer wants.

Speaking in soliloquies, naught an audience

A ray of light from the early morning, sheds on the empty seats,

filled with dust, but held to perfection, not in use

The author, once speaking, looks around, he shuffles the stack of paper,

he turns, walking to the edge of the curtain.

The chains, once idle, spring to life, “Speak out! for I am listening”

With dread he turns “I spoke my protests, in turn you shined, glistening in this once erupting theatre, but fore I spoke more I knew best, might you not indulge, nor yet I assure you would far too pleased to hear them… you might recoil and in turn, ripping bone from place, flesh from stagnant comfort… I fear, it could bring my own destruction. I much rather bid you adeiu.”

The chains cry, “You wreak havoc on me for? An agreement to ask, never fulfill! You once more will, naught your cries, shan’t you have enough?”

The paper crumpling from the gripping hand, he speaks coarsely “Protest what you will. My words are no more, for I rather constant inquires, than the guillotine to drop on my already closed throat…”

The sound of creaking floorboards, and a straining breath, a dragging limb, exit the stage, sound leaking off in the distance…