It has been like Scheherazade entered this tunnel
we have lived in - relaxing fables of magnificence
into its intricately created tho’ unstable ambience
playing to the theatre in an ageless way; we’re all
characters she created, and then staged within a
monologue of captured roles, earning accolades
where ironies of categorically absolute power fell
prey to her innocence; whether there is reason to
be convicted, or convinced we’re now powerless
with no say in who makes judgement - digressed
beyond th’ favour of countenances where fame’s
never going t’ be eloquently blessed, except in a
being who doesn’t exist, unless th’ words persist
beyond this scene and on into th’ next act where
dreams rewrite themselves about Scheherazade
© 22 February 2018, I. D. Carswell
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