second_stab_playwright
Lemon_Soda The Golden Rose
(monologue. Gentleman in early twenties. Evening attire. Holds a rose whose petals are gold. Scene:an open field under the night sky.)

Alone am I, flightless and to no place. I stand in a shadow of my own devising, clutched to my breast a golden rose, sweet of scent and soft like velvet skin.

I gaze up at the tears, shining and translucent, held to the heavens like precious jewels, their sorrow or joy nonwithstanding. The iris black pool that makes the above seem whole stretchs beyond my sight or grasp.

I wonder. I muse. I contract with my mind to cease the great question with an answer I may commit. But the pain of seperation, of lost hope and ill dream is to much. Dare I fate my hopes from possibility? Have i the strength to banish loves sweet caress from my heart?

Memories flood and pour like a great waterfall of pictures, splashing and flashing with earnest frivolty, only to disappear and be replaced by another.

A gaze into the pool that their collection creates shows me specters and wraiths of a past I can nolonger recall. Feelings and emotions sharp as any knife, drawing tears like blood instead of the smiles it first inspired.

Strands of fine fire-silk wave and tumble about her. A mouth not pout, but full of joy. Eyes, oh, her eyes. I cannot place but one color to them. Not a lack of color, but all color, like a rainbow painted across bark and shined liked a marble. Facets glint and weave in and out of reality, amazing and hypnotic.

Words and trees in the fall. Shocking tendrils of wood, awash with bright oranges and reds, yellows like sungold and greens from the clothe of her skirt. Pigment scattered about the street and a joyful laugh as we wade through.

I cannot. I will not. Take these phantoms from me and let me be. She is an essence. A greatness. My peace. Can a man know such things? What will I do when she turns to go? Already I have resigned to her and perhaps myself that we are not to be. her choice, not mine. But I yearn to be near her. To see her alone gives me great peace. I am content with who I am in her presence and no other being can do this thing for me. Would I so easily allow my heaven to leave, bound to a place far away?

The candle burns short and takes my time, precious minute by minute, with it. Any moment is a wasted one when I donot think of her. But I must let her go. Her kind is not given to marriage, or ties to one such as me. I have no dowery, fortune or talent. If only I could build a palace from my love and gingerly place in her palm the key. But alas, no. I am doomed a pauper and the road feels to sensual to her feet. I cannot follow, and fear grips me like cold, hard fingers of the death speaker. An absolute terror unending to not see her one more time. But that day is coming and this I cannot avoid. I always thought that I would see her one more time, but the day will dawn when she or I am dead, and despite our worldy ties to this one or that, there will be no solace for me or the piece of my soul that will die and leave with her. There is no peace for my soul now, when it knows that some day my body will ache of the toil of living and go to its final rest and I will have eyes no more to look upon her, nor ears to hear, or heart to feel.

I starve, crawling and wretched, through the slums and streets of my life. My bones ache, and my flesh is cold. I see Niether black nor white, but the slow, monotonous grey seeking my color and snuffing it like an inkwell spilt on a painting.

But the very sight of her gives me more than my fill. The shadow of my lady gives me strength to stand. Her laughter chases the pain from my limbs and warms me to content.I am a man before her, tall and proud.

I smell the golden rose one last time and choke on the portent tears of our last meeting yet to come. She does not know the trappings of my heart, nor do I have the strength to tell her.

Love me. Hold me. Stay by my side. Say that I am yours and that you feel for me as I do you. Tell me that together we would never thirst again. I would fly if I could but hold your hand.

Take me with you, even if I would be but a memory you smile upon, for it comforts the growing ache to know that I still give you happiness. My friendship pleases you, so that is what I shall give.

Oh, my rose, my golden rose. With petals of velvet and hair of fire. How I love you and allways shall. But will a flower ever say to its admirer cut me and keep me for I would die in your hand.

No, I think not.

And for that my heart is doomed.

END
031130
...
. . 031201
...
Cherry_Springwater Pretty, but I don't get half of it. 031202
...
realistic optimist very nicely done, lemon soda. though it reads more as a narrative than a play, the imagery is colorful and the wording adept. 031202
...
. . 040422
...
. . 050520
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from