#ballroom - Hello Poetry

The chandelier still hangs high above the wooden ballroom floor; Its rusting branches, even though they're made of gold, wrap around the orange coils which lie dead amidst the night. The clock strikes midnight, yet no bells are to be heard; The carpet leading up the staircase to the podium in the room. Crimson, velvet, and scarlet covered with a thin layer of dust; even if unused, it's seen an eternity of lives. The broken windows lend themselves to silver strings of moonlight, which slither through them; venomous beasts waiting to strike. Falling in straight rays, the delta of light's rivers crystalize the concrete walls, with a tapestry of the finest silk, intertwined with threads of fake gold. The stillness grows thick, Fog of dawn refuses to leave, lingering to see the spectacle unfold. A figure at the top of the staircase, the spotlight of moonshine leaking through the dome atop the room, caresses its curves, swims into crevasses highlights the bold edges, paints the skin silver, the gown royal red. In one hand, bare, slim, and pale white, fingers tighten slightly into a fist. In the other, a shard of broken glass one arm held up to the sky, to the heavens, reaching out to God Yet God had stopped listening millennia ago. The other hand, stretched out slowly making its way down Driving the glass through the layers of skin slowly, rhythmically, decisively. A slow, small stream of red slithers down the arm, grows larger with every inch it moves; and the stream never stops. The stream grows to a river, The river to a sea, reaching the elbow below, now spewing red liquid faster and faster onto the marble floor. Another hand to the sky, now this one bare in all its beauty. Another blade driven through the artery, Another stream flows down the forearm. The figure in silence drops the shard folds its hands in front, and stands facing out to the world it will depart. The floor now a lake; the thick liquid doesn't stop, The figure caresses its chin, Slips the gown down to its hips Bathing in the moonlight one last time Before it closes its eyes Stares into the red Ballroom Now red of its own accord.

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May 17, 2021

May 17, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC

theplaywrightisdead

Red Ballroom (** TW **)

The chandelier still hangs high above the wooden ballroom floor; Its rusting branches, even though they're made of gold, wrap around the orange coils which lie dead amidst the night. The clock strikes midnight, yet no bells are to be heard; The carpet leading up the staircase to the podium in the room. Crimson, velvet, and scarlet covered with a thin layer of dust; even if unused, it's seen an eternity of lives. The broken windows lend themselves to silver strings of moonlight, which slither through them; venomous beasts waiting to strike. Falling in straight rays, the delta of light's rivers crystalize the concrete walls, with a tapestry of the finest silk, intertwined with threads of fake gold. The stillness grows thick, Fog of dawn refuses to leave, lingering to see the spectacle unfold. A figure at the top of the staircase, the spotlight of moonshine leaking through the dome atop the room, caresses its curves, swims into crevasses highlights the bold edges, paints the skin silver, the gown royal red. In one hand, bare, slim, and pale white, fingers tighten slightly into a fist. In the other, a shard of broken glass one arm held up to the sky, to the heavens, reaching out to God Yet God had stopped listening millennia ago. The other hand, stretched out slowly making its way down Driving the glass through the layers of skin slowly, rhythmically, decisively. A slow, small stream of red slithers down the arm, grows larger with every inch it moves; and the stream never stops. The stream grows to a river, The river to a sea, reaching the elbow below, now spewing red liquid faster and faster onto the marble floor. Another hand to the sky, now this one bare in all its beauty. Another blade driven through the artery, Another stream flows down the forearm. The figure in silence drops the shard folds its hands in front, and stands facing out to the world it will depart. The floor now a lake; the thick liquid doesn't stop, The figure caresses its chin, Slips the gown down to its hips Bathing in the moonlight one last time Before it closes its eyes Stares into the red Ballroom Now red of its own accord.