Lonely bulb
Moonbeam beacon
Cascades
On the stage
Pitch black
Where my heart
Uncaged
Beat anew
Point of view
Learned to move as I grew
From a page
To a place
Where words breakthrough
And the curtains
Now foreign
Sheltering reek
Of mildew
Unconsoled
A tableau
Of a set
For a show.
Yet that show
Is no longer.
that show
an echo.
Of my voice,
Of your voice,
Of the voices, the songs
All the lines we recited
Are suddenly gone
Into space,
Into somewhere,
Unknown
Are they laying on top of the
Clothes that were sewn?
That were proudly
Presented
Showing depth in a role
Scarf wrapped around
A neck to unfold
A quirk
A narrative
Yet to be told
Oh, the warmth of the lights
As they followed your feet
To a spot on the stage
I can still feel the heat
And as much as my hands
began sweating from fear
I was often prepared
For the deep-seated stares
Sometimes tears
Sometimes glares
Sometimes exiting early
Sometimes standing ovations
Ever lost in our journey
Aye, there’s the rub
And as much as I love
What I did, I would do it
For them just as much
On the stage
Covered black, wooden slats
Wanting back
the fire that feeds my bones
Alas,
I am hungry
With nothing to eat
But my past
I keep going back
To that stage
Pitch black
I remember
That stage
Has a ghost light intact
And a ghost light remains
Standing tall
On the stage
A reminder
To all that perhaps
Someday,
And some way,
Somehow,
At some magic hour,
This home
Will be home
Once again
For wallflowers
Or time travelers
Or fans and admirers
Until then
I will think of the ghost light
And the
Burning
Yearning
Need
It serves
And the essence
It holds
In a theatre of old
Sitting empty
And cold
And for once
It’s unknown
If my soul still
Connects with this
Life
And the turn
Of events that now
Lead to this ghost light
That burns
Dimming slowly
And waiting
For us to return