Ps.37 And the award …

I was about to speak.
But they ran at me, 
Struck me with fists of destruction,
Till I stumbled and forgot my lines.
I would have been good.
I would have been good.
I’ve been pushed off the stage,
I have fallen;
And … he laughs, 
Not though, at my fall,
But the imminence of theirs.
For now, they stand, ‘spotlight’ showered in vein applause,
Today, centre stage of adulation; dreaming of award.
But tomorrow will come. 

Red carpet rolled,
Flashes of bulb, 
Shutters of hope, 
Voices call their names,
As I pass by unseen.
Tomorrow has come.
And they think it is all theirs.

He tears up the envelope to roars of disbelief,
He holds up his hand to usher the silence …
And he speaks my name.
Without nomination, 
Without critical acclaim,
Without even really performing,
With nothing left but shame;
I fell.
I forgot my lines.
I was young and now I am old.
And he speaks my name.
And no one else hears through the violence,
And I don’t care as I continue to stand.
In that moment there is no one but him and me.
He is all I see.
He leaves his stage and walks to me.
And in that moment it’s as if I am all there is,
And I am his and he is mine.
And now I remember the lines.
And all the words are, Him.

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