A red mouthed poet waits beneath a painted sky. Beyond it; rows of shadows, patient as graves, behold his artisan world of timber and dust Every evening, the darkness gathers here to witness the impossible. A dead queen returns, A stranger becomes a murderer, Two lovers meet for the first time, while carrying the ashes of a hundred goodbyes. Names are spoken by tongues that belong to no one. Rain falls beneath a ceiling. Blood appears without a wound. A door opens onto a country whose borders dissolve beneath the first pale hour. The minstrel's work satisfies. The hungry shadows leave. All is quiet The poet's mouth closes. The borrowed lives are stripped away. Crowns become costumes. Kings become footsteps in the corridor. Only empty boards remain, holding the memory of vanished footsteps their empty seats still facing its hollowed shell. Where are we?
The theater, I believe!
B// < hmmm B33 < i think this one might be too abstract fur me B33 < but i think the key to figuring it out is purrobably resolving the identity of the poet
BXOO < damn gj peter!
A theater, naturally. More specifically, one which has just finished serving its purpose. The audience has departed, the players have surrendered their borrowed identities, and the stage has been returned to that charming state in which everyone may pretend it belongs to no one. I believe that entitles me to a question. When the audience refuses to leave, does the stage still belong to the playwright?
.retaehT a ,raed ym ysae ,mhmH