They take their seats, waiting for the curtain
To be pulled apart, to display their emptiness,
Fixated, on the footsteps coming towards them
Occupying every hollow vacancy of the theater
As the hum of anticipation follows, growing,
Congesting every row, eager for the blind to see
What they’ve packed into for, the spectacle,
They’ve all heard from others, how marvelous
Their experience was, a must see sensation,
They crowed over it, to again be the audience,
In the midst of the slow decline of light,
Fighting back their excitement, the stage
Starts to bear the standing spectacle, an error
Of life, forced out into desolation, humiliated
Night after night, for the brimming playhouse,
The erect mush of torn rags and dirt smudges
Captivates, as a roar of laughter from the over
Privileged ones that waste the high tide
Picking apart the staged impoverished fool,
But who really sits within the puppet box,
Obedient to a hidden beggar, a crook of crooks,
Toppling the towers from which they gawk
At the overwhelmed spectacle, deceiving them,
Crippling their cannibalistic nature, lighting
The still spectacle, showing off it’s destitute
To the roaring crowd, burying themselves in sin
Night after night, making the show a gratification
That has astounded the upper streets, in turn
Making the poor spectacle, the biggest success.