The curtain is drawn on a stage thats bare

a chandelier swings but no light’s are thre,

crimson chairs now tattered and torn

etched golden paint now faded and worn.

Cob-webs hang like never-ending thread

billboards of actors long past dead,

mice leave print’s in the dust on the floor

no need to hurry away anymore.

From a window high up all dirty with age

a light beams down towards the stage,

just for a moment a shadow is seen

echos of voices where the actors had been.

Listen real closely you may hear a cheer

the sound of clapping as the actors appear,

taking their bows and last curtain calls

the show must go on it just stopped for a pause.