Old Vic

 

Once these doors close

The lights are dimmed

They may never open again

 

The soft ghosts of actors

Fading in our memory

Leaving only distant echoes

 

The bright gaudy costumes

The greasepaint and powders

All left where they last fell

 

The empty seats collect dust

The stage becomes a mausoleum

Of tragedy and comedy

 

Pennies draining from the coffers

Every day the pot empties

There are no resurrections here

 

These ancient eyes close

To sleep perchance to dream

Of better days ahead

 

Old Vic is hardly breathing

Choked of life enhancing atmosphere

The curtains are drawing closed