Tables of guests come and go,
Finishing score after score of rumbly
conversations and clinking cutlery
With glasses of red wine
That could’ve been red been paste.
They’re wrapped in glossy dresses, tall
In their latest haute couture,
Ignoring the lows of their lives in comfortable darkness.
The statue sits
Beneath the surface, disconnected
With those above who are
Preoccupied with their streaks of glowing smears
Like watercolour left out in the rain,
The flame of society dancing to
Disparate notes of a forgotten piano.