Emotional Monologue

A man is sitting within the enigmatic turmoil of a railroad station. His face is narrow and young, and his nose, lips, and eyes carved to a Semitic sharpness, have been sundered by a bloodless catastrophe. A traveling-bag stands at his feet. Around him people are clutching farewells and shouting greetings. Within him a monologue addresses an empty theatre. I am strangling emotions And casting them into the seats Of an empty theatre. When my lifeless audience is complete, The ghosts of former emotions Will entertain their dead masters. After each short act A humorous ghost will fly through the audience, Striking the limp hands into applause, And between the acts Sepulchral indifference will mingle With the dust upon the backs of seats. Upon the stage a melodrama And a travesty will romp Against a back-drop of fugitive resignation. Climax and anti-climax Will jilt each other and drift Into a cheated insincerity. Sometimes the lights will retire While a shriek and laugh Make a martyr of the darkness. When the lights reappear An actor-ghost will assure the audience That nothing has happened save The efforts of a fellow ghost To capture life again. In his role of usher Another ghost will arrange The lifeless limbs of the audience Into postures of relief. Sometimes a comedy will trip The feet of an assassin, Declaring that if ghosts were forced To undergo a second death Their thinness might become unbearable. At other times indignant tragedy Will banish an intruding farce, Claiming that life should not retain The luxury of another laugh. The first act of the play will show The owner of the theatre Conversing with the ghost of a woman. As unresponsive as stone Solidly repelling a spectral world, His words will keenly betray The bloodless control of his features. He will say: 'With slightly lowered shoulders, Because of a knife sticking in my back, I shall trifle with crowded highways, Buying decorations For an interrupted bridal-party. This process will be unimportant To the workshop of my mind Where love and death are only Colourless problems upon a chart.' The ghost of the woman will say: 'Your mind is but the rebellious servant Of sensitive emotions And brings them clearer dominance.' And what shall I mournfully answer? I am strangling emotions And casting them into the seats Of an empty theatre.