Man of Art

The thunder collapsed over which created disaster, the couples filed in, black velvet. Seated in silence, disposition on the faces, came forth the director introducing the actors. Act I was only what the tickets had paid for the crowd was silent, the fat lady sang, echoes in the raftors. Act II could not redeem what was already done. The mob grew louder and closer to left center. This was nota play, this was not a musical This was a theatre filled with residue and powder. The director, the same one who had labored over this work. his screams could be heard, "what have they done to deserve this?" the crowd savaged on, hushing the masterpiece. His eyes were glazed, even in his work had there been such rage. He made his way to stage right, took a bow removed his shirt and his pants The only thing that belonged to him now. He had been stripped of his pride. He knew of a church on the corner The one with the red door. He headed on the street read the sign: "A Tainted Suicide" first showing at nine. He entered the church, did not dip his hand in that holy water One candle lit, and not another sould in site. He wrapped his hands around his head and prayed for the night. All his lies, all his unrighteousness, he begged for forgiveness. What the priest had found had puzzled him An angry mob gathering the red door, all dressed to kill. Pearls and top hats. This was not the normal attire. He huddled over the director Looked at what the floor had collected Took the young mans face in his hand and kissed him. Begged the lord, jesus, to forgive him. The mob fell silent, their work had been done for them. This pitiful man of art, he had lived his own masterpiece. The same one that called for death. The same one that had created such rage. They burnt his collection. They burnt his body. The priest went back to his quarters, unable to believe what he had seen. Got in his hot bath, and he too, fell asleep.