The actor, In a grey haze, Of whiskey and words, That are not his, Has trod the boards, For eternity. So much so, that he has forgotten himself.
His make-up hides his age. At the end of the performance, Under the glare of the lights, The colours have melted. Like a glaze, And have fused with his skin, Now, he cannot show how he feels.
And as a mouth-piece for writers, Directors, For whoever pays his rent, He cannot say how he feels, Only what they wish to hear. Words that trickle out, On the tip of a rasping tongue.
So he drinks his whisky, His aquae vitae, That burns more than the lights, That closes his throat tighter than the false words, But he reasons that this, At least,
Is his own choice. But of course, He is an actor. And the character that he plays, Is more to fool himself, Than any audience. And the applause is deafening.