The curtains fall, an applause follows,
Her flamboyance seconded by the moon.
The lights dim, her pride wallows.
Countless are her adeptes assidus.
Men flock, boys swoon, at the tender voice,
Yet guarded she stands, her hands perched high.
The night is young, she says, a perfect choice,
She picks the one with the shiniest bag.
The crack of the dawn, sets the stage,
She clears her throat, smiles, shies away.
Her smile hides the infuriating rage.
As the night fades, the morning bird sings,
She collects her toils of the night.
Gathering the little garbs off her wings.
She flies home, walking the walk of shame
At length, home, and the comfort of her mirror.
Her beauty faded than the day before.
She clears her throat once again.
A crackled voice, of a girl in pain.
The wail of a lost nightingale.
2 comments:
I love the premise! And the last stanza is just killer, especially the last line! <3
I stumbled upon your blog on my feeds, and I feel this post is bit moving. Great piece. Keep writing man.
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