imposter

spit on the loser who plays prima donna, and the audience they see every act, fall, feign hurt, surprise tumbling along - wrapped in chocolate topped with beethoven making one last sonata this time in the sun. wait prima donna? the spit quickly turns to a gesture of apology, a kindly smile, genuine connection flushing through those soul like eyes - didn't mean to, my bad a grumpy man all dressed up makes a half bow, i must have mistook you for someone else! but the audience they are not fooled, tears glistening on his cheek, tries to hug the loser who is trying to beckon away, befuddled, going towards panic - i think the spit was better, for he can see his sorry ass state, down trodden, a little heavy in places here and there, stinking like rotten eggs, or kim chi breath, yuks. no it is more, his whole life, washed away, always aspiring, always down the gutter. always the same old excuses. the haughty man who pretends not to be haughty smiles benignly, i love you. the sun began to set, beethoven skips, mozart plays allegretto and the damsels they enter the scene, flourishing a down trodden stinker with roses, hibiscus, drink some honey will ya? maybe, maybe not mused the now calm prima donna who is sitting wearing colored clothing made up of various flowers beaming at the sky. hey what's up? called the sky to the man looking up, just musing while a brown noser tries to bury his nose deeper into the dirt, hey i too am a stinker he cried out to the damsels who had all decided to leave at the same time. sorry sir, no more flowers! and he spat rudely, pah, and here i am, just like the dreamer talking to the sky, whose long arms stretched and from an armpit rained down toads and frogs, only on one now drenched man no longer eager to make small chats. damn, damn, damn it all he cried. don't i get to be primo donna?