Perhaps tomorrow or maybe the next
she'll think to recall that closing night
when the swift coup de grace of the sword
missed its fatal intention
severing instead the tenuous cords
holding back the rose-colored curtains
that framed the stage on which they played

Folds upon folds...layer upon ethereal layer
floating downward engulfing and protecting
wounds too raw to bleed

Rose-colored curtains forever stealing
his triumphant bow of victory
on that ill fated closing night