Interlude

My fingers find nothing in this empty box,
the corners are empty and so are the spaces within,
I stand on the stage without a trick at hand
Dreading the frenzy of the audience,
I reassure, this interlude is a crossing
and not a chasm.
The fear is of connection
and not the fall.

The artless artist,
would be exposed today
as outlines of uneven heads,
stacked in an arc,
wait in an anticipated silence.
Their glazed eyes mirror a puppet
suspended in a luminous cone.

I remember, hidden cavities,
my fingers could unlock releasing feathers
and colourful silken scarf’s,
breaching the silence with a thunderous applause.
Their eyes seeking mercy,
for any doubt.

My youthful exuberance,
and persistence had vanquished fear,
as I dragged it along.
Tired of its chained presence and intoxicated,
I forgot him, completely,
till this interlude today.

I see him again today,
as I stare at the empty canvas,
while my fingers are dipped in the palette.

Could it be,
that fear is not of the connection but fall?
Is this where,
the wisdom knocks, I ponder.

I try and recollect,
the grace of autumn,
the color of her hair,
the shape of her breasts,
the sound of children playing.
Suspended in memories, I gasp for fresh air.

A cough breaks the silence,
and my fingers find the latch,
out comes a silken scarf,
birds of different colour;
followed by a deafening applause
crushing this unforgiving interlude.