spring is here,

and we don’t call it fate.

it’s just the next act of the plot.

we call this the falling action,

where we drink from a spigot buried

in the spear-pierced skin of divinity 

and say that its blood is water.  

where we trace the prescribed deaths

of the people around us and 

hope that they’re still here tomorrow.

the intermission is the breath before the fall,

where there aren’t enough pages to bring us back to life.  

we have seen this before.  

the closing scene is coming and 

the curtains will be blood-red and dripping.

the tragic hero was dead before the show began,

and he has spoken his lines and played his part.

the dead don’t stand back up and the playwright

spoils the ending with a whisper:

you’re up next.