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Spotlight
Smoke swirls up through the spotlight, twisting in patterns that look as though they have appeared from a dream, from the dream you had last night. Distorted pictures that flicker back, back in front of your eyes again. The bar is empty.
And she hunches over her guitar in the once-white spotlight. Strums at the strings, lifts up her head, and she sings. Sings to the bar, to the tequila and the bacardi lined up behind wine bottles, glasses. Few people hear her songs. They are too caught up in themselves to listen. They think the alcohol will numb their minds, take away the pain. But they are wrong. Her slow, sensitive strumming calms them. Her soft, husky voice running down into their bodies, soothing their hearts, their anger, their sorrow.
She is on the raised level once again, hoping that today some drunken punter will hear the words that come from within her. She is calling out, for help, for love, but no one seems to look up from their intoxicated state. The bar is empty.
But there is a man, a gentle, kind looking man leaning against the bar, drink in his hand. He is watching her lips rise and fall. Watching the words that she has been longing for someone to take in, roll from her mouth. Watching her flowing auburn hair fall before face. Watching her eyes glisten through the smoky spotlight.
She glances up, sweeps her hair back, her eyes fall upon the onlooker. He is the only person looking at her, listening to her. Her heart races. Finally someone can hear her, feel her. And as they stare at each other from across the smoke filled room, her voice becomes louder, his eyes become wider. It is as if they are being concealed in their own little oval. Her words connect with his thoughts. They are bound by the great force of communication. And as the last note rolls from her dry lips, and as her hand runs across the guitar strings for the last time, she smiles. He smiles back.
Smoke swirls up through the spotlight, twisting in patterns that look as though they have appeared from a dream, from the dream you had last night. Distorted pictures that flicker back, back in front of your eyes again. The bar is empty.
And she hunches over her guitar in the once-white spotlight. Strums at the strings, lifts up her head, and she sings. Sings to the bar, to the tequila and the bacardi lined up behind wine bottles, glasses. Few people hear her songs. They are too caught up in themselves to listen. They think the alcohol will numb their minds, take away the pain. But they are wrong. Her slow, sensitive strumming calms them. Her soft, husky voice running down into their bodies, soothing their hearts, their anger, their sorrow.
She is on the raised level once again, hoping that today some drunken punter will hear the words that come from within her. She is calling out, for help, for love, but no one seems to look up from their intoxicated state. The bar is empty.
But there is a man, a gentle, kind looking man leaning against the bar, drink in his hand. He is watching her lips rise and fall. Watching the words that she has been longing for someone to take in, roll from her mouth. Watching her flowing auburn hair fall before face. Watching her eyes glisten through the smoky spotlight.
She glances up, sweeps her hair back, her eyes fall upon the onlooker. He is the only person looking at her, listening to her. Her heart races. Finally someone can hear her, feel her. And as they stare at each other from across the smoke filled room, her voice becomes louder, his eyes become wider. It is as if they are being concealed in their own little oval. Her words connect with his thoughts. They are bound by the great force of communication. And as the last note rolls from her dry lips, and as her hand runs across the guitar strings for the last time, she smiles. He smiles back.
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Spotlight
Smoke swirls up through the spotlight, twisting in patterns that look as though they have appeared from a dream, from the dream you had last night. Distorted pictures that flicker back, back in front of your eyes again. The bar is empty.
And she hunches over her guitar in the once-white spotlight. Strums at the strings, lifts up her head, and she sings. Sings to the bar, to the tequila and the bacardi lined up behind wine bottles, glasses. Few people hear her songs. They are too caught up in themselves to listen. They think the alcohol will numb their minds, take away the pain. But they are wrong. Her slow, sensitive strumming calms them. Her soft, husky voice running down into their bodies, soothing their hearts, their anger, their sorrow.
She is on the raised level once again, hoping that today some drunken punter will hear the words that come from within her. She is calling out, for help, for love, but no one seems to look up from their intoxicated state. The bar is empty.
But there is a man, a gentle, kind looking man leaning against the bar, drink in his hand. He is watching her lips rise and fall. Watching the words that she has been longing for someone to take in, roll from her mouth. Watching her flowing auburn hair fall before face. Watching her eyes glisten through the smoky spotlight.
She glances up, sweeps her hair back, her eyes fall upon the onlooker. He is the only person looking at her, listening to her. Her heart races. Finally someone can hear her, feel her. And as they stare at each other from across the smoke filled room, her voice becomes louder, his eyes become wider. It is as if they are being concealed in their own little oval. Her words connect with his thoughts. They are bound by the great force of communication. And as the last note rolls from her dry lips, and as her hand runs across the guitar strings for the last time, she smiles. He smiles back.
Smoke swirls up through the spotlight, twisting in patterns that look as though they have appeared from a dream, from the dream you had last night. Distorted pictures that flicker back, back in front of your eyes again. The bar is empty.
And she hunches over her guitar in the once-white spotlight. Strums at the strings, lifts up her head, and she sings. Sings to the bar, to the tequila and the bacardi lined up behind wine bottles, glasses. Few people hear her songs. They are too caught up in themselves to listen. They think the alcohol will numb their minds, take away the pain. But they are wrong. Her slow, sensitive strumming calms them. Her soft, husky voice running down into their bodies, soothing their hearts, their anger, their sorrow.
She is on the raised level once again, hoping that today some drunken punter will hear the words that come from within her. She is calling out, for help, for love, but no one seems to look up from their intoxicated state. The bar is empty.
But there is a man, a gentle, kind looking man leaning against the bar, drink in his hand. He is watching her lips rise and fall. Watching the words that she has been longing for someone to take in, roll from her mouth. Watching her flowing auburn hair fall before face. Watching her eyes glisten through the smoky spotlight.
She glances up, sweeps her hair back, her eyes fall upon the onlooker. He is the only person looking at her, listening to her. Her heart races. Finally someone can hear her, feel her. And as they stare at each other from across the smoke filled room, her voice becomes louder, his eyes become wider. It is as if they are being concealed in their own little oval. Her words connect with his thoughts. They are bound by the great force of communication. And as the last note rolls from her dry lips, and as her hand runs across the guitar strings for the last time, she smiles. He smiles back.
Page: