The life of a mime
In the silence of shadows,
Flickering and wall dancing
To the rhythm of a flame.
Can you hear me
In every graceful movement?
Can you see the words
Forming the pantomime poetry?
Death mocks us tauntingly
In the silence of suffering;
We are longing for the advent
Of dawn’s warm embrace.
To live, to truly live
And be known by others,
To even find bliss now
In a false assurance,
To find the false hope,
To grasp it and own it,
To search for solidarity
Is to throw straw in the wind.
Can it be that we, alone,
Dance to the tune of solitude,
That the only light seen
Is but a thought in our minds?
Can it be that I am,
That the flame, though dim,
Consumes this charred wick
Submerged in a pool of wax?
The mind is but a mirror
That reflects what has been,
Projecting onto a whitewashed tomb
The silent dance of the pantomime.