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Why Cinema Cannot Be Dying: A Poem

And thus, darkness falls at any hour,
encapsulating eager audiences with widened eyes that stretch into curious moons.
Vibration trembles within the thick bone of diaphragm
as it wracks each and every being as their skin crawls and hair draws erect.
Let it be the score as if it was conducted by Apollo himself
Coaxing the raw emotion from its depthful hiding within the soul
and overcomes the vulnerability of collapsing mind.
Slow draws from weeping violins answer the question that the cello bleeds.
Or the frantic, anxious cries of tickled ivory that call out with distress.
Perhaps it is the vision inflated with life and is birthed by the one who paints each scene.
Accenting sequence with the grace of his own individuality, he is insistent to piece his work together masterfully.
For he knows what he must do to make peace with his mickle artistry.
There is a story that cries out!
That pleads to be told and understood; to be added on as its legacy grows.
For who will know if there is no conclusion? Dare they be left to question themselves?
A tale is not complete without its resolution.
Nor can it stray from the suppleness of its mother’s teat
if it was to be adapted from a novel or biography, must it reign true.
Detail mustn’t be lacked, for the silver screen must be illuminated with context.
For those who view it desire satisfaction.
And if it is scanty? The sweet taste of success is never to touch lustful tongues.
If a man can come to change himself with a miraculous resolution then he is to be observed and praised.
Or to contrast, if he is sly, or minxish, or as cunning and ruthless as he desires himself to appear, then he is to be enjoyed.
One drowns himself in the indulgement of bourbon, loud and honeyed upon its greeting.
The other tends to linger upon sweet champagne as it sheens and pops throughout him.
Do compare David Percival to Merkel.
Does each man deserve his fate as the Berlin Wall faces its demise?
Remnants of graffiti littering its body with vibrant colors that oppose the dying scene of a country divided.
Percival spits and sputters to his death, while poor Merkel flees in fear.
Or here, Remus to Romulus- as the sons of the wolf are faced with unfortunate time to come.
Rome is crowned in victory.
If there are more chapters to come in a saga, it would be unwise to leave the world pleading for more when it can be delivered.
Do not tease then common man unless you intend to feed them rightfully.
Oh, darling, there is more to come.
The cinema cannot be dying.

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