In Honor of the Bleak Stage

A torrent passed, replacing the needless blood flow.

It came beneath the eroded limestone

and ascended, without cease, flooding the well,

back from the land of fade –

and all of which the core was made

sprouted in this new spring of ours.

To fathom these fresh flower buds,

awaiting the sun’s embrace,

I seem to be incapable; and my mind

drifting in pieces: obsolete.

Can’t I simply lie and die

and revive rested, at your feet?

Aren’t we but meat – that thinks and rises and depresses –

across a line we ourselves conceived

out of reasonable need and ample disregard

of brief yet dense moments of feeling?

Oh, these words, drowned and defeated

They weigh your head down.

The frame narrowed, hope retreated.

As the

lights dim, the room tightens;

the hymn mutters and resonates

and it reflects; ever so.

Yet the seats are empty, doors nailed shut

the red, red curtain, now bleak,

the actor lifts his eyes

no applause left to seek.

Untitled. Photo. Henrik Dønnestad