The back row of the old theater
Where the velvet chairs are mostly dust and the woodens arms are weary-wrought
Under carvings of trees that have lost all definition, carvings of eyes that I'll never see
Under lightbulbs that would welcome the hint of a flicker and old chandeleirs that have rusted alone
Where music cannot reach my heart and tutus cannot brush my eyes
Where anything and everything else has drifted off to sea
Where the velvet chairs are mostly dust and the woodens arms are weary-wrought
Under carvings of trees that have lost all definition, carvings of eyes that I'll never see
Under lightbulbs that would welcome the hint of a flicker and old chandeleirs that have rusted alone
Where music cannot reach my heart and tutus cannot brush my eyes
Where anything and everything else has drifted off to sea
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