curtain call
Fabric goes up, not grandly—
just a panel pulled aside
to show a room arranged for looking.
Painted air, yes,
but the kind you find in old halls
where someone once patched the ceiling
and didn’t bother sanding it smooth.
People step through,
wearing whatever the night required.
Not costumes—just layers
they’ve learned to carry.
They move the way workers do
when the job is familiar
and floorboards know their weight.
Nothing here pretends to be truth.
Nothing here pretends not to be.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 29th, 2026 05:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Demar Desu - 德马尔·德苏, sorenbarrett
- In collections: 2026.
Offline)
Comments3
Wow this is one of my favorite poems of the year.. great visuals
Thank you Demar! Most privileged and encouraged. 🙏🕊️
Cryptic your work has grown deeper. To me this is the description of art revealed the common made viewable truth or not it is revealed different to each viewers eye. A fave my friend
The attempt was to respond to a poem about actors being talented liars and liars being bad actors... but as you can see the direction went elsewhere. SO amazing that the beholder gets the revelation coming to them which is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, in the same breath🙏🕊️
great write my friend
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