Stage face

He rests his head
Lolling just over his shoulders
As he were posed for prayer
Addressing one off of non-chalant
soliloquies like air

The vents point ever in
in deeper to his brain
past caverns of stage props where,
demons, devils, witches, and saints
Invite you all to stare

In him, such denizens
pace on the back mind
striving in a distinct hunger
with inkling towards the spots
To claim souls through virulent wonder

Watch them now, these beasts
how they play in his head
how latent, how pulsing
Drawn to where the fire blares
and soft hearts are listening

Never a show more to see
than the spitfire of his demure
for he takes away faces
in the flash of his little roar
and leaves always without traces

tips you to think:
Nothing is sure