Balcony Suite

High in the dim of a balcony suite

sits the shape of a man wise with wicked esteem,

refusing to smile, but I know how he thinks.

Might he wonder what shape I have made of my talent?

Of days we have lost? Who will lie down for peace?

The sight of his gaze, a familiar challenge.

He'll leave here the minute I bleed an extreme.

His scrutiny acknowledged as brilliant and boundless.

For now there's no margin in which I can doubt him.

The light of his praise, an uncertain tether,

beams hopes I can only ignore;

treat his faith as I would any audience member's.

Forgetting his best, I might even surpass it.

The orchestra swells as the curtains retreat,

when at once, I'm propelled by the thrill on his face.

I remember, from here, how he shows his affection.

And soon, I don't have to remember to breathe.

As love understands the expectancy gleaned

from the eyes of a father I dare not show weakness,

pride is the hand we both fear to extend

under weight of demand by a legacy breached.