If minute travesties expanded time to finish the tragedy| In a stage mourned and sorrowed| Rose petals tore down the curtains stained from wars we crafted beneath our arguments| And augmented dialogue unfinished| Filling in blank spaces with sounds of our surroundings| Listening amongst the outside| Where the tickets we sold amounted to nothing more than reflections mixed inside our show| We exposed to the world a stage in reality| Yet all they did was witness nothing more than a comedy| And scorned our characters because we couldn't do more| In their suggestions we grow| But from their judgement the reflections glow| And shine a light with screams of realisations| The writers became the audience| And finally they see that the secrets beneath their seats| Were only truths they chose to hide behind| The words they knew not the meaning of| Their hands clapping and asking for more| In stages the meaning of seeing become a blinding ref...