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Beau
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That Silver Door
I tell of winter blizzards and of wars and opium smokers,
Whisper words of condescension as I smile and say 'Goodnight'.
In the flaring bright of several thousand lumens-worth of candle power,
I smile into the camera's eye from underneath the light.
But far across the studio floor, behind the camera lies the door
That leads me from this fantasy and takes me who knows where?
For I have never contemplated opening that silver door
And asking, 'sotto voce', 'Is there anybody there?'
Tonight however, news is hard to come by and the crew is
Somehow restless, much more restless than I've ever seen before.
The camera's eye is beckoning across the void of brightness;
As the picture fades, the camera is panning to the door.
But I hold my expression tight, this face created every night,
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And try to read between the lines they've managed to prepare,
Whilst in the dark that silver door is glowing brighter than before
And more, I hear myself ask, 'Is there anybody there?'
Now no one looks at me, for there is no one there to see.
As I look out past the studio lights I know I am alone.
The crew have gone their ways, the cameras swing and idly gaze,
Their out-of-focus eyes upon the dying microphone.
But I have nothing I should fear, I know the public know I'm here
Inside this fortress fantasy; a cage of celluloid.
I run across the studio floor, fling open wide that silver door,
And through a bright and blinding silence fall into the void.
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