Practice Makes Past Perfect

Stamping of naked feet on marbled floors,

The echo of lines from empty classroom doors,

 

Imagined sets and a ghost stage,

Markings on a battered page.,

 

Blinding lights and hidden eyes,

Revealed by laughs or by sighs,

 

Stench of anticipation and the taste of joy,

Slaps on the back and a few compliments coy,

 

To have lived all that, now life seems pale,

I would rather live in some one else's tale.

 

 

 

Hasn't he run out of sento yet, you say? [:D]