The Playwright

The reddish lights are luminously evident as the darkness surrounding tells its own threatening story. As I carefully watch in denial, I can’t help but think who created this anticipatory ending. As the final scene concludes I can’t help but think what sane man would write such a horrific ending that precludes the possibility of glory.

The dramatic theatre sits empty, but I patiently wait to see the face behind this tragic scene. I will never leave this place until I can find the man to help me understand what it all means. This is not the first time I have seen one of his disheartening productions, and I wait anxiously for a formal introduction to see the absolution in his eyes.

I can hear his hellish laughter blazing down the brimming hallway as I continue to look for the double doorway hidden behind that dingy red curtain. I choose the door that was opened by the others and angrily push through the crowd stomping my feet in agony. My temper rises to levels of insanity as I wonder why they continue to praise such a tragedy disguised as salvation.

Temptation takes over as I get closer and closer. I continue to walk unknowingly as my hands get colder. Should I let him look into my eyes like the others claiming he is the beholder? As the question becomes transparent, I realize I will never leave this place until I look into his eyes and proclaim that I hold the all mighty pen. I am the playwright.

The Playwright.jpeg

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