Hair down, ready for the evening show
Of astral bodies in perpetual orbit
Yet never touching, never crashing,
Entertaining for a full second those above and below,
Each warm seat whole with naught but hope.
While in the back of the cloakroom,
In the bottom of a pocket, rests one art.
Not yet lost, against all odds,
One of the few left, barely able to impress,
Barely able to compete with the rest.
The loneliest loner of all arts,
Powerful enough to break hearts
But sitting in the shadow of humility,
Chained down by its sincerity.
Oh, but the show must go on and ghost limbs will make do
As the artist sets the stage on fire.
Oh, the show must go on, no one cares for the truth
As a body turns into a pyre.
Oh, the show must go on as the flames turn blue
With no soul left to inspire.
