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Rated: E · Poetry · Psychology · #2161968
Where does this singer go when she's on stage

I never even saw her eyes
As she sat on the tiny stage
Stalked by a lazy spotlight
And hugged by the murky shadows

She pressed her lips against that thing
that thing singers use to make their voice louder
But her voice never needed it.
For she sang her song as if it were her last
She sang her song as if it were the anthem of all songs

She held my senses ransom
As all were shackled to her soulful quaver
That quaver only singers seem to possess
With her eyes closed...always closed.

The band played behind her
A mediocre ensemble, unworthy of credit.
But she sang their apology in G flat melancholy
As her song filled the room...No, her song was the room.
Parting the smoky veneer as if it were a silk curtain.

Staff moved back and forth in front of her
momentarily blocking her image
Making her seem like a silent movie- with sound.
She gripped that baton thing that singers use
And crescended her tune to a distorted expression
With her eyes closed...Always closed.

Why, I wondered, should she chose not to see
Her hypnotized audience in this smoked filled crucible
A singer's voice that could command any Carnegie Hall
A vocal investment for a raucous ovation.

Perhaps behind her lids, a bigger more bejeweled audience did exist.
Perhaps. But for this time, her sweet song
Glued her eyes closed...Always closed.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2161968