It all makes sense now. Every piece of puzzle laid on the floor fits together now. The time had come and so has it gone and all that remains is a shadow of it.
A theater's been shut down, now. The heart stopped beating and the trance has long been set to null - a life's ended just the same. The lights shone - yes, they did. But, up on the stage today, no roses are being thrown - there are no stones either. Yes, The performance that was staged up on the stage has ended and no voice were raised and no words were said. There are no claps - no, not until now. Now, the serenade has long been sung and deemed mediocre and set aside.
A Pity. A faint show of love and sympathy mostly. A writer's death. The narrator sobs in silence as the curtains fall. The heroine dances all the same but the heart remains untouched and even the drools seem to have dried off and all that remains is stains on the collars of the mindless audience who can but perspire in silence. Yes, there is a silence now. The cries of perspiration voiced on chorus - the cries are so meek that even the vermins residing on the attic assume no human presence beneath them - they rattle hither and thither free of care and free of fear.
The hero drinks until he drops unconscious. The gates to his Juliet are open, see but the walls somehow seem taller than what they used to be - they will never be crossed again. The Old Romeo and the New Juliet won't be together ever again. The Cassanova's been arrested and whatever alien feeling overtook the sub conscious has retreated from its way. Solemnity has bred a new form of exasperation and the fumes of this insanity takes over the well behaved citizens and throws the city into chaos. Cowardice and fear reign the blind horse and the stage creaks in silence - perhaps in anticipation of the fall immitent.
Games and rehearsals and stories are no longer told - no longer appreciated - the curtains fall, see and not even a voice of acknowledgement can be heard. Almost as if none of it ever happened.
There is a hollow in the plot now - an ocean in the heart. The dirt of failure means as much as the glamour of success - nothing. Words of flirts and flatter, love and hate have long been settled and sworn to be kept unheard and un-felt. The time has come and so has it gone - a faded hue - a trace remains as a grim silhouette - and, a reflection of self claims - it will all be forgotten some day.
The time has gone.
