Prose

The audience take to their seats, the ones issued remorselessly onto slips of paper, whose donating words lend passage t’ said seats taken. Over-head, projected whispers mutter useless entries in life’s pages, filler content for a childlike consciousness whom can’t stand idleness, is afraid of void. Underneath this humanist hearth is the dull ignition of musical grace as strings bend into mathematical tone, reciting scripture, as heard under vocal reverberations of angels, with harps t’ give harmony. Then lights dim into somber meditation as red drapes unfurl themselves from the stage, t’ the establishin’ melody, who’d be the theme, sayin’, “Look life is just a dream”. In the shroud of darkness approaches a man, neither bound by historic reference nor physicality, merely voice.
“The sins of my father! oh circular nature! Inspire a learned hopelessness! Weariness beyond flesh! Where is the golden melody?”
Each line delivered like a spike, impalin’ the audience, their souls squirm in their meta-physical seats.

(Its all a dream)
heard in echoes
The lights come, blindin’ at first then dim t’ appropriate sun-decoy, reveling ghetto’d street slum, as a hobo, lookin’ much like a clown minus make-up, makes up sad blues on banjo’s American traintrack rhythm. A man walks through the aisles of the theater t’ herd the audience who then walk across the stage back an’ forth, indifferent extras actin’ t’ a full crowd of empty seats. The duration of time sped t’ theatrical time, the crowd slowly thins as the hobo sings in slight liquored tongue, “What a life we live, what a life, leads t’ ourselves, not even credited extra t’ somebody else, birthday candles breathe out themselves, an’ god’s an’ atom, imperceptible t’ most, we’ll see him whole when we give up the ghost”.
The word ghost hangs impossibly long.
The man stands then erect in statuesque, undyin’ form as the stage crumbles like cracker, pieces subject t’ tomato soup with tongue-stingin’ content without a proper table. Behind the ghetto laid Victorian gold-embroidered magic of aristocratic wealth happily devoured, while more sympathetic-inclined universes vomit. The hobo’s clown attire drew a short dizzying flame, Satan sneezed.
“Pinstripe suit talior’d wares, wear earth’s cries, shed lukewarm heated thoughts, a geometic shaped hole where the thought fits, where once removed, an’ your face reflect behind haunting visage of mirror’d identity, metaphoric physical form betrays mind!”
The band starts playin’ hellish decadence, an’ the man starts t’ tap dance in time with charcoal black cane.
He's got a Napoleon simile sayin', "Hey if no one else wants the world, it might as well be mine t' take". He paints the world with red paint (a prop), cuts out a slice then eats it.
"Diamonds are made with enough sides t’ reflect all onlookers!!!" yells a man savagly from the back of the audience then leaves.
"We've contrived the hell we're damned to!", a voice retrots t' the man whom is no longer there, a slow-witted reply lovers always throw at the angished one that decides t' leave before physical contact, hearin' the sound in muffled, hot steam-pipe notion, ignored.
The diamond expands in gulfing even Einstiens dreams, the qulit of time made infinitely dimentional. A shudder of gasps be the last sound before this fragile universe collapse.
The empty seats exit the auditorium.