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The Singer

Poetry By: Violet Vane
Poetry



"I love to be happy, but I love to suffer on the stage..."
- Placido Domingo


Submitted:Oct 13, 2011    Reads: 5    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Silver light,

piercing through darkness.

Soul silence,

no voices in your head.

All is tense inside,

the coils tight, springs ready.

The chill of being naked,

of baring all the angels

and the demons within-

you can't hold it,

it makes you tremble, makes you shake.

And then,

Passion, bright hot passion,

burning through your eyes and heart.

All the world bows to your will

bends to your voice,

cries with your tears.

And time stops.

Time stops...

Here is the culmination

of all pain and work,

of all past failures,

and joy-

There is so much joy.

Even through the bramble of bad memories,

you are elated, lifted heavenwards,

even as you die a little inside.

Sweet agony,

voice laced with bittersweet sorrow,

they hear you,

they feel you,

you bring them down into you.

No one can breathe

unless you breathe,

they are all caught

in your enchantment.

Your gift-

it is real magic.

Giving them the power to feel

through you.

But that stark light

blinds the eyes.

Are you good enough?

You have turned like the seasons,

washed in and out with the tide,

been through the grinder,

all in a matter of three minutes.

And yet...

Was it enough?

Questions asked by the doubting Mary

inside your head,

Will anything ever be enough

to silence her voice?

You can't bear anything

but Music.

It is the burden you wear,

the baggage you carry

and at once,

the wind that sweeps you skyward

to Heaven,

to God.

You can feel nothing

except Music.

Your soul was not designed

to work in any other way.

Will this be the moment

when Fate meets Dreams

and they marry, holding hands,

and ushering you into a world

that has brilliance and love

at every turn,

where the labor of love is your labor,

the pain and suffering

merely fodder for a song.

The applause washes over you,

like the fire and ice of heroin

in your veins.

Fire wells up within,

burning you in ecstasy,

an exquisite happiness that

borders on both the holy and profane.

Whether the gods were listening or not,

you know that nothing can be taken back,

that the moment is gone

and you left it all out on the stage.

That quiet state of grace,

standing behind the curtain,

listening to the frenzied rhythym of your heartbeat

lessen, softly, slowly.

You are sure you are dying.

You ache so deep,

a fresh hole opened within

and things are still pouring out.

But it is tremulous and hushed,

anxiety giving birth to something sublime.

As for the next moment,

when will it be?

Not soon enough to quench your desire

not soon enought to quell your fears.





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