Cyndi K. Gacosta
The Prima Donna is the show.
When she sings I try to catch the voice.
Her magic shoots through my ungloved hand,
And kills another spectator through the heart.
Inside the dying man is the bullet melting
All his icy organs.
At the last note, so dearly she holds
The audience to her naked bosom,
And turns our anticipated faces to a ghostly blue.
In the end when we empty the theater
Our lives renew.
Cyndi K. Gacosta's Other Poems
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