On the stage - a poem

The page is blank,

like a relationship

when a first response occurs

on match.com.

Who is that person?

Are they the page or the ink?

The pen or the storyteller?

I know only the picture,

only the general size of their nose

and whether their ears stick out.

Is that a double chin?

And their bio.

A micromemoir of their

desires and lack of flaws.

A self authorized fiction

created by self anointed

artistic license.

How beautiful that would

be in real life,

controlling how others view you

like a master puppeteer.

"This is how I look

at this particular angle

and in this particular light."

God help us if we

met in a dark alley,

or maybe worse

in a well lit milieu

of ordinary folk.

So maybe the page isn't blank,

but filled with a carnivore

in waiting

only later to reveal

how well they concealed

themselves,

on limb or under bush.

Or maybe they

allowed the illusionist's

reveal -

waiting under their smile

to later pounce.

Or maybe . . .

their presence

was truly majestic enough

to show their flaws.

And still

draw those

to pursue.

The blank page

and the mystery therein

may be

the greatest

sentient draw.

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