Greasepaint

By David L Painter

There is a certain mystique that lingers backstage,
where roles become habit
and characters are set free.

Time hangs like a slow-motion waterfall
as you memorize your lines-
just words on paper, voices yet to be born,
echoes not your own,
mere reflections waiting to be accepted.

Your entrance is made, stage left-
time to be heard, time to astound.
The audience is seated, the house lights fade.
A hush falls as the first lines are spoken.

At last, the curtain drops.
Bows are taken to thunderous applause,
your name printed on page three  of the local publication.
You gave it all,
and your real self is all but forsaken.