Sitting
in front of me empty like
a patient audience enduring the performance,
but much emptier.
No applause…
Silence.
I chose
to stand still like
a piece of icicle ready to melt,
but hiding the heat.
Constant oppression
Feeding…
Flames.
They listened.
They listened to non-accidental words being thrown out,
Facilitating the weight on my shoulder.
Only me and the chairs in the room.
I felt heard.
I felt heard by my own agony,
Maybe I should stay in silence.
They don’t care.
No one.
Here they are, sitting.
Enduring the performance,
My performance,
No applause. Silence.
Who’s really the chair?
You? Maybe me?
Tasnádi Nóra XII. H
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