The Old Life

In a dusty theater,
lucky enough to hear coughing,
lies wind blowing through
the empty air.

Tears are created by
waltzing ghosts on stage;
singing their last love,
living their last hope.

Old beauty encircles the squalid room,
As the last will crumples into dust in hands...
(Amazing, the words of above on
dotted and lined paper).

And passionate envy stares back,
refusing to stop haunting that place;
steals glory from the (un)deserving,
stale green eyes conspicuous in dark.

But even this enchanted world seems
almost as old as time,
such meaning it had; no one remembers.
And as these pictures grow faded evermore...

Eventually, we will fall.