A/N: This is stupid, it just dawned, and it's not the style I usually pick up to write poetry. Just wanted to try it, well, here you see the result. I guess I'll stick to my own style. (Isn't that a crysis of identity?)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Madame Giry talks to Christine about her lies.
Lies between Grey Halls
So cold and grey
The Opera shines
Into Giry's bright eyes
Christine frowns foolishly
And glimmering the triumph is
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"Madame," her voice yelles,
"I am strong, I beat his love away.
From now on I am free
Of his face
And am to be loved again."
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"My foolish thing," Giry replies,
"how little do you know.
Erik is the dearest creature
In the world.
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He loves you more
Than his own life
And you dare to spit on him?
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You play your childish games?
You sing for him
And lie and astonish
The moral truth in all these halls?
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Wasn't it you, my dear Christine,
Who sang for him all day?
Who gave him lovesongs
To sleep well?
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You lie, and he can see.
I feel him cry, you foolish girl,
Hoping for one look of yours."
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Christine gasps, and cries, and yells,
"Madame, why do you lie? My biggest
dream came true tonight
Raoul loves me. He does."
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So, Giry is frowning
Tired of the naïve mind
Playing tricks on Christine,
"My love, if you don't make him smile
I'll do.
And maybe, one day,
He will see,
That I can do it
Much better than you."
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