She got her degree in philosophy.
She travelled but never learnt how to ski.
Taking all her prayers, put them under the stairs.
They sound like weight on an untuned piano key.
Your meant to give it more than that.
Suspend disbelief throughout every act.
And at the last curtain call,
the backdrop will fade, the scenery fall.
If life is a stage and our lives are displayed
we should know by now what to expect.
He's been shooting cats, setting traps for rats.
Organising the place where he hangs his hats.
He knows how to cook. Always carries a book.
Lives on the basement of a block of flats
and he's not going forward or back
and might have a panic attack.
And he's not really living.
with the birds not wanting to sing.
He no longer hears with two functioning ears.
There's no point in listening.
She always gets sunburn. She tries to learn
when to hold back and when to take a turn.
She doesn't place bets, and as bad as it gets
she just waits because everything gets a return.
She's too timid to interupt
though the volcano is about to erupt.
And in the same way, she will silently lay
until she has to quit the taciturn.
