Death Scene

I lie splayed on this stage of a reality,
struggling to breathe. My heart is clenched
and shudders as it beats. Head swimming,
rolling, chanting: stay alive. stay alive.

This will be my night of death.

Fitting. Stabbed through the stomach
with a sword unsharpened, rounded dull,
I collapse with a gurgle to the floor.
Illusion, all of it, and as the bodies pile up
the audience just laughs. The curtains close
and I scramble to my feet, my death played out.
I must keep out of sight, for I'm a ghost.

Yes, fitting, do you not agree?
The stage is perfect for a death,
a transition, a shedding of
this act, this character I had become
so very good at playing. So well cast.
Clap for the director, nowhere to be seen.
Run away to another play. Clap anyway

for once the play has ended, once
the final bow is taken and actors have
shed their parts, the world rushes in
and reality reigns again. I'm left
dead and wondering if I'm still on stage.