A night at the opera promises humble defeat
to a forgotten singer in the audience.
Velvet seats smooth lines of tension
carved deep into sunken flesh and muscle,
disguising bones that make music of their own.
A fallen empire watches the civilization
born from its blood
sprout flowers on its unmarked grave,
atop canines that can’t bite back.
Drowned in obsolescence,
A single tear streaks the singer’s cheek by intermission.
The primadonna’s bel canto echoes like a hymn,
Condemning her to an afterlife like no other.
There’s heaven, there’s hell,
and there’s opera.
Daily Arts Writer Sarah Rahman can be reached at email@example.com.