The bulbs cool to beginnings, Staggering of a thrown switch, Fixations daylight endeavours held Lie robed in the velvet outer skin, Of final, laboured hours, The thin trails of a heartbeat, Or our bodies, prone and restless, Grasping without light, Summoning without music, Lie heavy and momentary on my bitten lips, My back blurred and torn by pianists fingers, And the elusive, shapeless, Falls, quickened and insatiable as ourselves, To form poetry, At sunrise.
“We are content with the ‘given’ in sensation’s quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.”—Jim Morrison - The Lords: Notes on Vision
My first attempt at a play, due to my love of dialouge. More of an experiment for me in this form, so any feedback would be welcome :)
Many years before the present.
A fading sun lingers upon a darkening horizon, the coming of night. Restless candlelight flickers within expansive quarters, amongst lavish furnishings and ornate decoration, wealth and status are evident in its construction, replicated in the dress and demeanour of its single occupant.
Bellator, powerful ruler and formidable soldier. His large frame is wrapped loosely in silken robes, his face masculine and sharply crafted, carrying minor scars, reminiscing of previous battles.
Pacing the stone floor in discontentment, his eyes frequently address the parchment laid out on the table before him.
Guard: My Lord, your brother has newly returned.
Bellator: He sent no word of his coming?
Guard: It is he, My Lord; I have seen him with my own eyes. He requests your presence.