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Poem
In the dark she is waiting, 200 kilos of velvet
separating one world from the other.
It was art to her, she was under no pretence,
she was an instrument, and she made the other instruments merge in a delicious unprecedented harmony.

A poet, a warrior, a lover, a sinner.  She has tasted the divine and the melodramatic, to capture moments, photographs, for the use of summoning emotion and reality.

She had been hurt and she had hurt, she had walked towards hell and ran away from heaven.  Beginning as a muse and then enslaving the musicians one by one with her whispy and sultry tones.

An electric keyboard breaks the mumbling, vibrato, a pause, a cheer.  The drape rises and she peers from the darkness, masked by shadow to the floodlit mass in front.

The drums are brushed gently as the crowd softens to the figure emerging from the dark.  Not knowing if they were permitted to break the spell or join it, the crowd pay their respect with silence.

You can almost see the phantoms she has witnessed being beckoned into her.  Short linear smoky essences, touching her then being pulled inside.  She saunters slowly towards the mic, eyes closed, and with both hands it becomes a sceptre.  This will be a heartfelt song again.

She inhales, her belly fills, and she breathes life into the mic.  Her tones slice through the thick air, soft yet with such projection and feel.  The crowd can not contain themselves and let out a cheer as their eyes fill. She masterfully picks up her bass, as if resurrecting a lost love, and it sings for her.

Her hair is gone now, most of the crowd know why and they want to cry.  But she holds them, captivated, and hypnotises a smile into them.  They sway to her, some hold their chests as if covering some hole for fear of their hearts falling out.

This will be the last time we will feel her grace.  But she will be summoned herself.  The band know this.  She sits, the treatment has taken it out of her.  But her voice never falters.  That chair will be kept alongside the drummer that loved her.  Her bass will be his kryptonite.  But he will keep it close anyway.

The curtain will not fall tonight, it shall remain at half mast.  She will bow and we will fall at her mercy one last time.  In homage, and respect.  She will leave but she will never be forgot.  She has trained herself into them, and she will always be singing.
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