The radiant glow is only on the lips,

Inside the mind, is utter gloom of melancholy.

Everything is make-belief, and facade.

The vivacity of feisty is extinct

Half way, through the night.


The melody is only in the stage,

It grows into a dirge, in the green room.

Impaired shape, miserable wretched face,

Worn out adornments, and dark visage.

When I approached the stage, before the viewers

All the barrages, shattered and tears

Deluged the soul, throbbing in pain.


Dreams that dare not fade, though forgotten,

Like pictures of ornate glass, splintered.