The End by Mike Rader

First my roof, torn away, discarded,
leaving my exquisite plaster exposed.
It stormed that night.
Kelly didn’t sing in the rain.
They started at the front of house,
box office, foyer, candy bar,
my gorgeous staircase with
its art deco railings —
nothing!
The booth with eyeholes
wherein dwelt two huge monsters,
gone in a tumble of bricks.
My circle, bereft of seats,
crumbling onto my empty stalls,
shattering jackhammers
the only applause now.
One final Intermission. Before my
proscenium arch, a hollow cave
devoid of its silver screen, falls.
No, we won’t always have Paris. 

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.