There seemed no resurrected hope On "Black Easter" 1865. One bullet In a darkened theater had Stilled the play, rung down the curtain for a nation, And no stand-in Waiting in the wings could read the lines The same. Where was the Producer then? And still he lets bullets close his Brightest plays. One crazed critic can, before the act Is over, send the lead into light In Dallas; one lone hater in a balcony Can stop the scene Before a motel door in Tennessee; A despiser of one line of speech Can so confuse the stage-sets that A kitchen corridor contains a dying scene Before the curtain's barely up. Now the darkened theater, the stillness on the boards, Makes us wonder Why these voices were silenced entr'acte, Why good "angels" let these plays close down. Then is 'the play the thing,' or just A sleight-of-hand, a veiling curtain for a Subtle alchemy, each bullet the Bombardment of an atom, converting bleeding mass To energy In endless fission as on that Friday on a hillside long ago?
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Warren Wedin email@example.com