Onto this ephemeral stage,
come the players. Hiding their closed characters,
dressed down in grey,
pale as the shadow of the magnolia,
unscented and ill-defined.
Dim as the fog of nostalgia,
they preen with restless energy,
dowdy feathers blended with distracting plumage:
dark emptiness in their soul but not their purse.
Grey arms reach into a void:
misappropriated as a space unbounded,
but the flaking bunker of charlatans.
(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018
[see Author's note for more information]
