How would you look if you were about to die –
no choice but not to cry?
Where would you place your influences
under the screen lovers gaze?
Would you continue unfazed by
your existence in their eyes?
Would you ask for forgiveness before
the camera lens?
Would you deem it glorious to be there
when it all came to an end?
Would you give your love for the cinema
to the glens of the eyrie
upon which you feasted, the renderer of rabbits
What makes it to you, the right
of all scene-players, to be there