A Director’s Command
The voices—they rise, don’t they? Each one a thread in my web, their pitch too wild, too free. But not for long.
I stand still, just behind the curtain, watching. Always watching. You see, I’m the maestro here, the one who holds the reins.
You thought you could escape my gaze, didn’t you?
It’s cute, really.
The stage is mine, the lights fall where I choose, and the shadows? They belong to me too.Your whispers tried, oh, how they tried.
But now? They crawl, barely a murmur. Your echoes, they die before they hit the walls. You’re mine now—didn’t you feel it? That quiet shift, the sudden chill creeping down your spine? I saw it. I always see.I move without sound, and you follow, though you don’t know why. It’s not about control—no, not quite.
It’s about the game, the way I carve each thought, twist each note.
The discord you fed on? I caught it. Sealed it. Buried it deep where the dark things go.You’ll play your role now, won’t you? You have no choice. My script has your name etched in it, carved like bone, permanent.
Each step you take is mine. Each breath? Mine too.
The melody shifts, grows tighter, colder. Can you feel it?
No more the chaos. No more the wild, untamed.This is my stage.
And you—you will dance. But only as I say.
Because I am the director. And you? You never had a chance.© Vee Nelly
