Unseen
The foggy tendrils of smoke hold secrets, writhing and untold, dissolving into the air as new smoke and new secrets replace them.
Each foaming yellow-green glass of Absinthe has been mixed with tragedy and sadness, and when some lonely stranger takes a sip, new tragedies replace the consumed ones.
The sound of the dancers' feet plays out a funeral melody, only heard by those who have experienced death in some way, shape, or form.
A pair of eyes, watching through the smoke, seeing through the Absinthe, and watching the dancers' graceful and intricate steps.
They remember the story, the tragedy that was once here. How can a place that was so marvelous become so miserable?
Ever second of the day a person dies, and another is born. So why does one death in a million make so much of a difference? Why should that one death make the smoke thicker, the Absinthe greener and the dancers' steps heavier?
Why should anyone stop to think about the lonely writer up in his garret who has lost everything that has meant anything to him?
A pair of eyes still watches as the world around them unravels. That pair of eyes belongs to me, a single Moulin Rouge dancer.
I know the story, I watched as it happened. No one notices me, because I'm one in a million. No one sees me watching them, but I know things, and I'll keep on watching.
A single tear falls from the eyes that watch, as a story is remembered, as the tragic waves of sadness return.
The unseen stranger is still watching.
The foggy tendrils of smoke hold secrets, writhing and untold, dissolving into the air as new smoke and new secrets replace them.
Each foaming yellow-green glass of Absinthe has been mixed with tragedy and sadness, and when some lonely stranger takes a sip, new tragedies replace the consumed ones.
The sound of the dancers' feet plays out a funeral melody, only heard by those who have experienced death in some way, shape, or form.
A pair of eyes, watching through the smoke, seeing through the Absinthe, and watching the dancers' graceful and intricate steps.
They remember the story, the tragedy that was once here. How can a place that was so marvelous become so miserable?
Ever second of the day a person dies, and another is born. So why does one death in a million make so much of a difference? Why should that one death make the smoke thicker, the Absinthe greener and the dancers' steps heavier?
Why should anyone stop to think about the lonely writer up in his garret who has lost everything that has meant anything to him?
A pair of eyes still watches as the world around them unravels. That pair of eyes belongs to me, a single Moulin Rouge dancer.
I know the story, I watched as it happened. No one notices me, because I'm one in a million. No one sees me watching them, but I know things, and I'll keep on watching.
A single tear falls from the eyes that watch, as a story is remembered, as the tragic waves of sadness return.
The unseen stranger is still watching.