From backstage, he can’t see them, but he knows there’s a crowd from the hushed whispers, an unmistakable sound.
He knows his turn will soon come around
Despite his best efforts, none of his confidence has been found.
Plagued with crippling doubts and fears,
He wonders if anyone will care when he sheds his tears?
“Probably not,” he tells himself and braces for them all to silently leer.
In the distance, he hears them announcing his name.
Walking onstage he tells himself, “this is why they came.”
His story is a lot of things, but certainly not tame.
For longer than he cares to remember, he’s been silently suffocating under his self-induced blanket of shame.
He never thought this would be his road to fame.
As he awkwardly approaches the microphone, he wonders if he’ll ever again be the same?
He takes a deep breath. Prepared to loudly speak. Only it comes out as a mere mumble.
Panic stricken, all of his words are soon bumbled.
He tries to regain his composure but over his own words continues to stumble.
He leaves the auditorium feeling nothing short of humbled.
Maybe they listened to his story about his lonely days out in the cold,
Maybe they heard nothing and instead focused on how he looks: so tired and old.
Maybe they will heed his warning in the story he shared of the Soul He Sold.
Maybe they would have to both live it and learn from it, as he’d so often been told.
“Hopefully,” he thought to himself, “I reached just one, and today is the day he will give in to his demons and once and for all fold.”