Wherever there’s a heart there’s a will— Rui Alves
Whenever I wander through the Colosseum I feel lost in the rings of this gargantuan writer’s circus
no more than a puppet entwined in a perplexing plot I’m a wooden writer playing along on someone else’s stage
Strings subtly sway silently steering my steps in serendipitous scripted scenes the hand who writes is no more than a gun-for-hire marionette in the drama of everyday dalliances
The writer is a disgraced actor in a surreal vaudeville
I’m a pawn in the playwright’s perplexing play perpetually performing my part in Polyhymnia’s puzzle
Within this masquerade everything is a dé-jà vu scripted in the silent syntax of the algorithm’s grand Carnaval
Inside I silence a scream yearning for salvation
I strive to sever the strings that bind me to the puppeteer’s will
my crimson nails gasping for air while seeking a voice beyond scripted stanzas
In the grand opera house of time I aspire to dethrone the puppetry
to sculpt my story and stage my opus amid the cacophony of this Babel Tower
