a screenplay is comes to life, film reels are rolling
a man appears in the picture and sings his opening number
his tune is love, his love for her, and her love for him
at least hopefully it was love, perhaps just appreciation

the lines are read, and there are lines to read between
other longings, other feelings are uncovered; none of it is new
the truth of guises is made manifest, and the wolves now hunt
but in the end, simple existence is the killer, for blase is toxic

and the rattling from the expired footage goes on
flashes of black and white are all that remain of the symphony
there is no curtain call; there is no bow
for this show ended not even with a whimper, but a final breath