But this is not the time to think; this is
the time to act, to read the script and strike
the languid pose, or improvise and, like,
you know, make up the dialogue, the his
’n’ hers, the cut and thrust, the loss and gain.
But this is not the time to think. To think
is to admit mistakes are sometimes made.
No one who thought was ever unafraid
and love’s to fear as water is to sink:
what ever else, it’s heading down the drain.
We’ll be all right as soon as we’re on stage,
positioned, waiting for the curtain rise.
We know our lines now better than the page.
It’s fantasy. It’s love. It’s life. It’s lies.