THE SEASONS OF THE HEART/ The Play

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THE SEASONS OF THE HEART/ The Play

Act I- Spring

The world a stage

Humanity an audience

Two actor playing their parts

Loving each other 'til death

do them part.

Kissing, hugging

Burning in the fire

Crossing every bounday!

Breaking every mold!

Letting love consume it all!

Act II

The play at first seems to go on cue

But outside forces bend it askew

From time to time

The actors check their part

To assure themselves

The scrip is play on par.

Act III

And Yes by God!

The lines are the right lines

Why is it then the play

seems incomplet?

Is it perhaps the lihtning

Or maybe the decor

Could it be the shadows

Of other plays before?

Act IV

The audience is attentive

In spite of it all

the actors are good

Does love conquer all?

They want to know the ending

For they paid to know.

Act V

Summer

So far is an open ending

No one knows for sure

Time will tell the truth

of it all...

And the actors bow,

And the audience claps

The sweetness of the evening

Envelopes their hearts!

Act VI

Autumn

The curtains are open

Wide and far apart

The actors seem wounded

Both across their hearts!

They forget their lines,

They stumble and mumble!

The hugging and kissing

Have ceased from the play

Hurtful words and actions

Have taken their place

Act VII

Shadows of past plays

Have taken its toll

OF the actors parts

And the actors lines

The spell appears broken

The magic seems gone

The curtains drop down

Is the play all done?

Act VIII

But the play continues

No matter the odds

Time in all its kindess

Helps the actors part

The love and the kisses

Are very much part

Of the old old sweetness

That enveloped their hearts.

Final Act

Winter

The curtains rip open

Letting light within

the audience in awe

Can't believe the scene

There is no romance

Is all been a dream

How can this be so

It all seem so real?

Beware of illusions

They can fools so

Our poor naive hearts

Can pretend to know

Reality awaits

Alone in the dark

Waiting, always waiting

for a cold "hello"

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Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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mirian’s Poems (7)

Title Comments
Title Comments
THE SEASONS OF THE HEART/ The Play 0
MY TIME 0
A Mother's Advice to her Daughter 0
TIME 0
MY BROKEN DREAM 0
PRACTICALITY 0
Through my Rose Color Glasses 0