This is a place of unequivocal cantor.
Where the true poets amuse their audience
from a broken, exploited stage of compassion and sympathy.

A simple stage, where many have fumbled, stumbled and even crumbled.

Just to get up and do it again.

Where many a simple poets have waited and waited, nervously on the sidelines of the underlit bar, waiting for their turn to trip their way up to this stage

Where many a simple poets rustled with each letter of each piece they wanted to perform, hoping they didn't crash and burn

Where a single, frightening stage light burned
holes into their souls as they stuttered
through the stanzas and verse of their careful crafted pieces of art.

Where they tripped their way up to that stage one last time, because they had one too many glasses of wine to drink just so they could spread their wings and fly

And fly they did.

This was the beginning.

Where it all started.

This is, also, where it ends.

A final moment.

This is the moment that can define a poet.

Where poets become human once again and the clock on the wall slowly ticks toward closing time.

So with one final sip of wine, one final piece of their heart, one final chapter of their life written and placed before you, I bid you ado.

This is it

Their last time on this stage and now they can go home.