Hours upon hours of rest do not resurrect the soul.
Waking hours degrade the dignity of their name.
Only the eyelids, by force of dying will, stay open.

You think: opening night cannot come soon enough.
You’re pretty sure you know your part,
but the director says no, keep working.

If these nights are a dress rehearsal for death,
then maybe by show time you’ll be ready.
Maybe you’ll have memorized the whole play.

Maybe you’ll have learned to respect the curtain,
and though planted on the dark stage until the end,
you’ll be granted the will to begin your work again.