The Singer

Upon the stage,
the girl sways slowly,
humming and smiling,
enjoying.

Dressed to the nines,
she was in her prime.
Yet all she did was sing,
in the smoke filled bar.
Where no one listened,
except one.

In the dim light,
the man reclines.
He leans back and sips
whatever horrid drink
he had been given.
If the drinks were so bad,
why did he still come?

The man came, every night
just to see her, hear her,
watch her, breathe her.
For he couldn't get enough
of the sweet, angelic voice.
He entered and came,
quiet as a whisper
every night to hear the Singer.

The jazzy music becomes louder,
and the fringes on her black dress
shimmer in the light.
She starts to sing for real.

Her face twists and changes shape,
as she feels the agony in the song.
She feels as though she's speaking for herself,
screaming out in frustration.

And the man listens to the Singer,
the beautiful, sweet Singer.
He closes his eyes and feels her voice,
penetrating his heart. Soon,
his heart is aching because of her pain.

As the song comes to a close,
it gets to be too much.
The man stands up and leaves,
her singing too real,
too painful, overwhelming.

As he stands, his chair clatters to the floor.
The Singer's eyes snap open.
She continues to sing,
and hits the one and final high note.
The man tries to rush away,
but turns instead, figuring it was too late.

And as she sang that one final note,
she locked eyes with the man.
She conveyed to him,
their spirits having a fight,
her spirit hit his,
kicking and screaming,
forcing onto him all the pain she felt.

And the Singer fled the stage,
just as the man ran out of the bar,
their spirits still fighting,
taking as many blows as they could
to one another, relieving their torment.