The Barbarian Bard

Tales and Musings by Michael A. Espinoza

Spectator Sport

My ticket bought, I stand in line,
on the empty, teeming street.
Alone I fight the silent crowd
and am ushered to my seat.
The lights go down, I shield my eyes,
the curtain’s fall away.
I join the roar of no applause;
it’s time to see the play.

In this show I see a man,
born as all others are.
In the first act he sets his sights
on vistas wide and far.
His dreams are vast, ambition high,
his wings have come unfurled.
He’ll grow into a mighty man
and spread those pinions across the world.

The crowd and I watch others join
this young man in his cause.
They help shape his words and build his thoughts
so none will give them pause.
His greatest friends, they turn this man’s
dream into reality.
Yet for all the agents in his life,
it’s lived with no agency.

His dreams now shaped to worthy form,
his wings clipped so they appeal
to those beloved guardians of his will,
who traded dreams for constructs real.
The successful man finds brief delight
in stepping briefly from his cage,
so he may be an audience of one,
and see his life acted on the stage.

He buys his ticket and stands alone
an empty face on an empty street.
He joins and is himself the crowd.
He takes the only seat.
The lights go down and he shields his eyes
to hide the tears that start,
for he knows when this play reaches its end,
his own act again must start.


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