The Mime

Often, he lies unmoving.

Silent.

A smudge on the canvas,

A break in the smooth line of a road

A memory,

A ghost,

Acknowledged with a flicker of remembrance;

Nothing more;

The forgotten wallflower.

But I have seen him,

Out of the corner of my mind’s eye,

Move.

The grace of a dancer,

Paired with the slyness of a beckoning cobra

His every move accompanied by a perfect symphony of silence.

From the first surge of light,

Spilling over the edge of the horizon,

He follows me.

A relentless mime, is he;

Emotionless,

Soulless;

He holds a knife over an innocent victim’s heart,

Just as he would a toy over the crying head of a baby.

The same featureless hand reaches for the pennies in young boys’ money jars

As the one which hands out soup to the poor.

 But it is with the first trace of night

When the fat lady sings, the sun goes to sleep;

And a curtain of stars is revealed,

That my shadow makes its final exit

Author's Note

Cooked this up in a few minutes; hope you enjoyed!

Reviews

[LJW]

Ooh. You do those things?
Twisted but well written.

[disheveledApathy]

This is so Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. ;D Great poem, I enjoyed reading it!
-Mer