A Wax Museum

The Wax Museum

   By Linda A. Copp

The wax museum is still and calm.
Its tallow beings hold a certain charm,
As they reach out in their quiet way,
Seem to speak through the roles they play.

Queen Elizabeth, ruler of England.Cleopatra, Queen of Nile.
Yet, tripping down the floors of oak,
I hear no words for no one spoke.
The only sound about at all
Is the echo as my footsteps fall.

Lady Macbeth contributor in Macbeth's great tragedy.Macbeth, murderer, hero, driven.
I wandered into this house unreal,
With no intentions, none to feel.
I meant only but, to divert the mind,
Watch the figures dumb and blind.

But, my head became a house of dreams,
As I beheld the frozen scenes.
Thought I'd speak to the figures then,
I'd make them live and breath again.

Jesters of yesterday, clowns of Now.
Yet, my words were stones that tumbled down,
Fell silent, empty and I, their clown,
Stood there gaping and quite alone.
For these were wax, not real, not bone.

And in a moment's breath, I forgot,
That wax was wax and answered not.
Then accepting this as the rule of thumb,
I wondered then just why I'd come.

It suddenly seemed I'd always been
There in that house, housed within.
Yet, I didn't fit, I didn't belong
But, I couldn't shut up, I couldn't be strong.

Just walk away to some other place,
And leave this to them, this empty space.
I had to reach out, I just had to try,
But, the difference between us, the wax and I,
Kept us separate and quite apart.
T'was futile and senseless to break my heart,
And let their silence bother me,
their wax complexions stare at me.

I watched this house confused and still.
My eyes were wet, tears seemed to fill
Their cups of wonder with a bitter wine,
The promise of another time.

Napolean conquered more for France than any other previous leader.
These figures dressed in robes and rags,
The beauty, sorrow, joy and flags.
The splendor wrapped about the place,
The horror waxed in someone's face.

Harriet Tubman, ran the underground railroad, helping many of her kinsmen to freedom.Martin Luther King, a champion of civil rights, assassinated.
The spectacle of a King's ascent,
The tragedy that a bullet wrent.
The kings and poets, the beggars and clowns,
Assassins, bullets, smiles and frowns.

Performers dressed for the roles they play,
Their separate scenes, their feelings stay
Within the confines of their mass.
They're either there as I turn to pass,
Or they never were but my thoughts that be
Just mere illusion, my fantasy!

   By Linda A. Copp
 ©April 29, 1970

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