By: Lydia Crow
Nothing to say, nothing to give.
Nothing to die, nothing to live.
The tar of the greasepaint, the feather of time
Scars my skin in this pit of lime.
A moment in time, a pause in the air,
Dead echo of feet on the backstage stair.
Nothing in me, nothing but him.
Enter stage left from the shadowy wing
And deliver the lines to the critical crowd,
Costume dragging me down like a shroud.
A moment in time and an actor stripped bare
And a ghost of a ghost who wasn’t even there.