A piece by Ivan Wong
Who are these characters who pretend?
Of what philosophy can they comprehend?
They are those set upon this earthly stage
Who try to perform each and every page
That was purposefully written.
Know you not this Writer?
His words which turns darkness brighter
The written truth revealed by ink on paper
His characters brought to life.
Their shadows which fall on the stage curtain
Mortal players in a world so very uncertain
Yet, their Writer supplies needed direction
A show written and brought to completion.
But this well written play is a tragedy
An unthinkable drama of mutiny
Players who have gone their own way
Defying all that the Writer has to say.
How then shall this stage survive?
Are players to play a role of their choosing?
Does the Playwright not have right to casts?
He decides who comes first and leaves last
Taking heed of him does not mean losing.
Is there any victory that is considered greater
Than actors playing roles determined by their Writer?
There is a kinship that no one sees and it goes unheard
Of the forbearing Writer and actors who know they erred
So, what of us today then?
Players on our own stages
Or writers of the current ages?
What say you?