Deus Ex Machina

With the lights so low and as shriveled as they are and as pale as they can,
the ends bristle with heat and passion derived from the start of the fall.
I'm not a machine with my hands tied in barbs and my eyes wide open staring at the screen.
I'm not disgusting but I'm disgusted with what I see in the words that come out of your mouth.
I'm not the pen or the hand that guides it – the car or the man that drives it.
I'm independent of the act and the scene that precedes it.
I am contained in the prologue and exist in the outro:
the fading respiratory chords that beat to the sound of the audience's heart.
The lights close like eyes in the back of a theater—
listless in their spell—
they slip out of their chairs into the shadows on the walls to blend in like chameleons.
Make a grand escape!
A murder mystery for the drama queen, that's what’s needed to stay her attention,
while the rest of us move where we're pulled and go when we're told,
following the lights around center stage—
pan right, pan left, deadpan art in mock-form reality.
She likes to think she's the mistress of marionettes.