sub·se·quent·ly

Life to me …

Is the Opera.

In which dramatics, sweat and provocative nature get exhumed in the plot

The authenticity eludes the audience

And I am Charles Foster Kane, the Citizen

Clapping furiously

At the end

After people watched passively

Curling lips

Snarling tongues

Silent minds

Hearts closed

Hands still on their laps

After participating in the event

But never quite GETTING it

Never quite experiencing the message

Fulfilling how our nature’s portrayed

I am not one to kink shame

But the voyeurism is sickening

They send us away

Hoping the love of theatrics dies

And yet we thrive

We formed our own spaces

And panic ensues

Aliens have flooded the city

But when it came time

For our plays to air

Doubt and distain

Filled every chair

And I looked upon the masterpiece

Of trauma, glory and gloom…

They know not of

The money and power

It took to try to erase this debut

That nearly succeeded …

They know only

That the critics ranted and raved

Subsequently

And I am the only one applauding