There’s no retirement for an artist, it’s your way of living so there’s no end to it.

  – Henry Moore

She walks the dusty aisle, up the dark stage

Flashback to the audience, the golden age;

When she reigned, the queen of the spotlight

As she danced to housefuls night after night

But memories fade, people change

She turned grey; her disposition, though the same

Yet their vile selves needed eye candy

Curves and smiles first, talent secondly

Silly people they were, fooled by her wrinkled face

After all the oldest of wines, had the richest of taste

With a lone candle flame flooding the dark

Igniting her veins, was that familiar spark

She performs her routine the timeless classic

As the dust mites in the air charge with static

But all that stare back are peeling grey walls,

She smiles at the memory of the deafening applause

She’s a creature of the dark, a legend forgotten with time

Whose ghost in the night, rose like smoke from a pyre

The spotlight her oxygen, the stage her throne

The art her virtue as she danced all alone

No live orchestra, no more spotlights

Yet she danced her nights away

Conjuring beauty

That never lived to see the light of the day


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