Rehearsals Staged

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 reflection|

With peripheral visions inside shattered lenses prescribed from our daily obsessions|