The Orpheum In Winter

Eating the paint on the Orpheum walls are the voices of every performer Some dressed in black with pearls in their hair Some straight from England (Paul Weller) Truthfully, I've been left freezing myself eating the cup of the deep yellow moon lifting the music out past the old walls of this beat up Victorian room Frescos are heavenward scrolling and spun faded out velvet on chairs A spit of a girl now behind the tall mike not a one of the men in her life still is there She is a replica of each of these seats and what they contain there with in The crying and torture of bruised and bled souls left over from yesterday's sin She is the voice of collective remorse They're sorry for spilling the moment The room heaving breath from her following's sigh releasing their beaten up torment All of the paint absorbs the dark air and peels on like acid to rain Orpheum walls, once a grand concert hall Now home to, and bursting with pain.