The Act

A stage is set, yet empty,

the audience waits in shadowed rows.

We dress in masks of our own making,

hands trembling behind rehearsed smiles.

The act begins—not with applause,

but with the quiet inhale of truth,

that fragile moment

when what we hide fights to be seen.

Every gesture, measured.

Every word, a coin tossed

into the wishing well of judgment.

Do they see us?

Or just the part we choose to perform?

Curtains sway with the weight of longing,

and in the wings,

our reflection watches—

a ghost applauding itself,

a witness to the act we cannot forget.

And when the final bow is taken,

the masks return to their drawers,

but the echo lingers—

a secret applause

for the courage it takes

to stand,

even if just for a moment,

and perform the truth.