Gliding down the stairs,
Past the glitzy mirrors,
The carpets and ornate chairs,
Her dress a fiery red, it
Clings to her powdered skin,
Defiant against the world,
She’s a woman of whim.
Everybody’s watching her,
The men with approving eyes,
The women with their glares,
Secret smile on her face,
As if she knows what they all think,
She stretches out a careless hand,
To catch a passing drink.
Gracefully, she moves through the crowd,
And talks here and there,
Shes the glamorous scarlet woman,
The game of society’s greatest player!
She twirls the sparkling liquid in its glass,
And watches the swirl of gold,
Much like she stirs up the world,
And watches with eyes bold,
Everybody’s whispering enviously,
Everyone wishes they were her,
Wrapped in her glamorous bubble,
Of crystal, cars and fur.
Regally, she passes round,
Taking the envy as her due,
Giving her low seductive laugh,
Making her famous moue.
But they don’t see the too brilliant eyes,
Or the stony set of her face,
They don’t hear her ragged breath,
As she goes home to her modern palace,
They all laugh and drink,
While she stands alone in her red gown,
Oblivious to her rich white surroundings,
Trying to keep the pain down,
They mention her name in admiring tones,
Under chandeliers that glow,
While she sobs her heart out, in the dark,
In her prison of wealth and woe.