Studio of Memory
There are no windows here
the place tonight I go
to plot the scenes for the morning
searching over past lines, cramped below
the tiny dim light
reading over prior scenes
to write out the next act
as the shadow behind me leans
into my thoughts of afternoon
and what the up-coming part will be
a character of happiness and peace
or gloom and unfree?
If memory serves me correct
sitting within its windowless walls
it's not really going to matter
so why do I have withdrawals
pains of what is to happen next
based on what happened in the past
I stand and shadows cast to ground
time to close the studio down
and create a whole new play, at last!