They think it's all a show.

Everything a planned catastrophe.

Costumes, glowing lights.

Gentle hands and desperate voice,

forced laughter ragged cries,

song unheard.

Two become one in a final embrace,

frozen in time,

cold as the snow.

Lifted to where all angels are meant to go.

To where he can't follow,

and love's not enough.

Fingers ache from typewriter keys

that don't sing words like she did.

The thrum of metal to ribbon to paper,

words are foreign and he begins to doubt.

He thinks it's all a show,

everything a planned catastrophe.


A/N: Please tell me what you thought, constructive criticism is accepted and welcomed. Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge!.