She drags tired heels
across a tainted floor,
poise slightly bowed
and her back is sore.
She holds on her face
a cold marble stare,
a hard life engraved
upon cheeks once so fair.
Her faulting movements,
once graceful; divine.
Her aching limbs now
with guile, defy
her final performance
on this dark empty stage.
Memories fleeting
of a much better age.
The roar of the crowd
in the heat of the lights,
commanding the stage
to the cries of delight.
Standing ovations
from sold out rooms,
cries of, “Encore”,
bouquets and blooms.
A West End starlet,
she danced through the air,
forever performing
in the spotlight’s glare.
The flash of the cameras
and jostling fans,
her fluttering eyelashes
would meet their demands.
Talk-shows and dinners,
awards and applause,
accolades and roses
received without pause.
A star on the boulevard,
her hands cast in stone,
everybody worshipped
and bowed at her throne.
She reached for the heavens
and in starlight she basked,
the world was her oyster,
she could have all she asked
but her deal with the devil
was soon to be paid,
like any sweet rose
she must finally fade.
Soon the face in the mirror
would define all her time,
a light dusty trail
at the end of each line,
until cracks in the glass
couldn’t mask her demise,
just dull flaking make-up
for a weary disguise.
The halls became vacant
like her own distant stare,
from cold tired eyes
behind dull brittle hair.
Her body denying
her desperate pleas
to return to the times
of such graceful ease.
She drags tired heels
across the tarnished floor,
her body now trembling
as she reaches the door.
With a last tearful glance
at the dark, ageing boards,
no more bright lights
or loud cheering hoards.
She turns away
and with a mournful sigh,
closes the door
with a whispered goodbye.

The rain is hard
and the cold wind bites
as she stiffly walks off
in the dark stormy night.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 19th July 2014
Revised 28th June 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

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