There is an old and musty smell that seems to drift in everywhere. The last ship is getting ready to sail. The phrases are stagnant and the rhetoric is stale.
The words are blocked and just won't come. The horizon is gray and plain and the clouds are overtaking the sun as the aria finishes that last refrain.
I put on my gold dress and my auburn hair shimmers in the moonlight. The agnostic thinks that it may be resurrected but I really think not.
A tear leaves my eye and I now know the truth. I change out of my gold dress because the poetry does lack. My countenance has changed and now I am wearing black.