“Not one wall,” a little birdie whispers.
You’re there, the director’s chair, planning your motion picture.
Love birds, free spirits before that, old souls, a marvelous mixture.
Wardrobes and soundtracks, not too trite but catchy, just right.
Sharing cinematic secrets, keeping composition tight, the light.
Shot-by-shot, bust a cap, down the trap, picturing each scene.
Characters galore! But none to out-sparkle your shining star sheen.
[Silence falls. Asking yourself: can my mirror show me myself?
As a boy, nothing seemed too tall, not the bedroom bookshelf].
Doubt: changing the story, capping the cameras, scrapping it all.
“The good-old-days, creativity sans check or control, not one wall.”
Your mind, disillusion soaks; tongue calling movie magic ‘a hoax.’
“Climb, kid. Hope isn’t headstrong. Say: reman the cameras, folks!”