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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Sunday, 8 February 2015

The orchestra...

The shadow is our friend,
it helps us play our little games.
The spotlight our muse,
helps us execute our moves,
as we sparkle like reflector lights-
leading the way to entertainment.

Our lines are vines,
that connect us with our audience,
if they are cut off;
we stammer like epileptic victims,
with no spoons in the mouth,
it's not sweet at all....

Our audience,
The saddle on which we struggle,
as we endeavour to jump huddles
nerve wrecked in need of cuddles
from the sweet caress of success,
for it's that beautiful girl;
our derby's prize, the meddle.
The only thing to make us calm,
after we have entertained, satisfied,
bowed, and waved goodbye..

The sits in which they fill,
are the tickets that we bill-
to access them and make them feel,
how we feel when our hearts are still.
Numbed by the love that inspired,
and gave us reason to bleed,
and in all honesty to seek heed.
They are the parcels that bag,
our reactions from persons,
endeared by our inventions;
they are what carry us all...

The stage is an aid for the masquerade;
a prop for the props from the audience en mass,
as we carry out precarious acts in play,
like a Nightingale singing out in the pale-
to drive out ennui and sway them to stay.
It carries us, it's the deck on which we ship,
sailing steadily into performance sea,
where upon the waves there's much to see;
act in comedy and sorrow in honesty,
drama in enmity and action in situation,
and for the grande finale of medley,
all we desire is your ardent devotion,
for the orchestra is our home,
and you are welcome to walk into our emotion

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