Saturday, July 23, 2016

Palais De Garnier- The Opera

Chant, chant,
angels are made of musical notes
gold and bronze their wings,
soft, the glaze over their eyes

chant softly to the time of chandeliers
that stand tall ,erect to the test of time
to break, we can, to call
to conquer, these high, round walls

Callas, the songbird, did not die on the scene
but released music into space
like a hundred doves
fluttering their wings at once

on the stage, wood against wood taps
a ballerina rotates to the sound of Tchaikovsky
while a swan prepares to fold its wings
on a song of its own making

over the stairs I see the shadow of his reflection
in gleaming eyes, a man full of love, full of loathing
to others, plants a red rose in the heart of a flower
hear, angel of music. He's here, inside my mind

present and not present, a tale told,
of screams disfigured, made to sound goth
painted with gold, the ceiling, the walls
paved the walkways with chandeliers lit for other people

while he lurks in the dark
leaving me winding stairs to climb, I walk in the phantom's shadows
a Christine with another name,
 as long as angels hold the doors up
I will continue to walk
into the garish light.

No comments:

Post a Comment