She loved the stage
and the yellow lights;
she spoke of red curtains
and endless bright nights.
Champaign and hairspray,
shining sequined gowns,
ballads and promenades,
feathery gold crowns.
With her hair piled high
and her lips ruby red,
she glided across the stage,
and spoke of acts long dead.
“Stars grow old and die,
props peel and decay,
the lights fizzle out
and the curtains close away.
But even as the crooner
commits his last song,
and the cabaret crumbles-
the theatre lives long.
The seats are all empty,
the pit soundless and sad,
but the stage sings of starlets
and the scenes that it had.”
And she danced across rubble,
atop dust and flaked paint;
she wrapped herself in tattered red
and sang like a saint.
For here on the stage
is where she truly belongs,
and while the lights may dim,
the theatre lives long.
Stellular Scribe 