//Atmosphere/Spotlight.//

I have seen nights wash away like dirt stuck on shoes in the rain,

if words could hold and free what we had,

then everyone in this world would have become happy by now,

but it isn't like that.

Your words they are like paint once they are used in an art piece,

they remain its part and they dry

until that piece has become a stand alone, an entity which

is recognized and fed on, imbibed by everyone and everything around.

After some thought I realized that my words had taken flight, they were free in an unusual way, they ebbed and flowed as they wanted

they engulfed me, and their strokes

painted the audience's

white canvas into an artwork of emotions,

and it holistically was drenched in pain.

That piece now knew the pain of hanging, in this case in those minds,

for it will lay there collecting dust, until it vanishes like silent footsteps of the 

flickering night.

"Thank You," I said as I gazed into a dark corner in the back and left the mic with its long cable hanging in front of their faces. Then I vanished into the dark, for now I understood why I was scared of my existence in the light.