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There were no words that could pierce the light of the noon-day sere.
With silent glances, we scrutinized the scene.
Stage left: handshakes meant to greet brought only fears.
Right, roses meant for each, kept only for those here.
And yet the doom-drum beat onward in time to the turn of the gyre.

What of those lost players,
Behind gilded wings,
As these angels ascend in thunderous glory?
What of the morning-star and the beast below,
And the sordid din of an opera box?

"Crawl back now into your graves, your lost kingdoms.
I did not leave death's dream kingdom to prophesy to you, nor to speak at all to you.
I am not Lazarus from the dead,
Come to say..." There are so many things I would like to say. 

"We would not break into laughter,
But only into thunderous applause.
Not only for you,
Yet only for you."