The butterflies are waiting in the wings.
The curtain of the sweaty palm opens.
There’s a flutter in the hall
that fans the cloud. In that moment,
                      lines are lost,
           then crossed,
then recalled.

A step onto the stage
and the danced
of the director’s tune,
begins.

The manners of a stranger
are familiar now,
and you finger the faux pearls
that you wouldn’t really wear.
Say the words
that you wouldn’t really say.
Shoot someone….

Dedicated to all the wonderful folk at Radyr Drama Society