Was it wrong to believe

for a short while

that I could recapture a moment

in time,

fleeting perhaps,

the small gesture

of alluded art that I so desperately

wanted to be part of.

That to dream of standing

before you, the lonely virginal

player, steeped in the allure

of the greasepaint and the single

short monologue

in which to make

an entrance with,

to make people sit up

and take notice of,

was that ever so wrong.

Into drastic middle age, early death has been defied