Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
In the dim-lit living room of suburban England
the scent of wet wool and burnt tea clings to the walls,
and on the back‑back sofa, those torn‑up people sit,
a couple who have taught themselves to shadow‑box with the truth.
Nick—his tongue a blunt blade—pours his wine with the
care of a men‑in‑uniform; Martha, regal and re‑decorated,
stares, her eyes smouldering like extinct coal; a plastic yard‑groom’s
clock tick‑clock feeds the silent compulsion of theirs.
They tilt at each other as a pair of jigsaw fingers,
each piece bound by cruel, blunt strings.
They whisper the unseated names of all that they are:
"love" becomes a raw, negotiating steel, and even
mortals should bend under the roar of a thousand lives.
Voices rush to the stage – unseen but loud,
as if they were bright and gleaming under a bright lamp,
claiming that no one, no matter how brave or novice,
ever wishes to bite the sharp, crusty humour of truth.
They gnash on stupid sentences, covered in paint of fate,
and those who watch, on the back of the balcony, can hear an echo,
a soft rustle of a murmur like a single planet thrown into the void.
“Afraid?” the audience says,
a riposte caught between a polite shrug and deep reflex,
“Because you never,past the life’s thickvel,
you are called the brick, the wall, the speck, and the glory.”
Hence the title states a question in its own right:
when the truth is set, it raises your heartbeat
like a rattish kite, since the heart will never relearn to smile
forever.
The audience erupts. Chatter, murmurs, the last thought under seeds.
The room is still, and a quiet surrenders to bed.
The truest love inside art happens when lovers know the pot they
swear to keep close and peel out, up, without being afraid,
Kaemun buries behind the trunk of the so‑called
mistake, because the humble “Who” has no real take.
Beside the bright, silent ceiling of the living room,
we all blush from the game‑idils, the new world that confronts the walls.
We lick our tongues, we ask softly: “Who would you rather be? And who will ever?
Is a title opened if we have barely out there?
Yes, the curtain lifts—an absence is cold and the presence is also warm.
In the gloom of this, one lone soul whispers, “I’m homesworn.”
Usually, a small smile might pend in bright wary)
Hush, the curtain is glazed in the poise from it’s next ring.
Are we ready? Who is afraid to trust the wound?
A mindful friendly pressure awaits it's neighbours,
And those windows. The word of what you give will speak, haming world-too bright,
"That’s how we dance, my brave friend, we are what we are."
