Extras in our own ill-fated drama, teetering on termination; awaiting the axe.
Playing obsolete roles for the ignorant masses,
Too fat and complacent to catch the shift in us,
Too close to the stage to see the sleight of hand; the illusion.
All they can do now is clap on, unaware.
Confused when the lifeless thing in the corner is examined and pronounced dead.
Stunned when the rings are thrown into the crowd as they separate and take a bow.
Leaving by different exits to take up new roles, on a new stage.
Touch Of Cinnamon