It's a beautiful thing.

A collection of paper,

Of paintings, of outfits,

Leap from their confinement,

Slowly building and forming

A masterpiece before your eyes.

.

It's a precious thing

To be a part of it.

People from all sorts of backgrounds

Create the characters, interpret them.

People sit with their instruments,

A symphony rising from their fingers.

Unseen people roam behind,

Forming the magic,

Keeping it functioning.

.

The work that is involved,

The countless hours of

Revisions and preparations,

Until finally, you either

Have a product or

Are forced to go ahead anyways.

.

To hear people laugh at it

Makes all the work worth it.

Their quiet little gasps

When a character is pronounced dead.

Their belly-laughing at jokes

You still don't understand.

.

It's become a masterpiece.

.

But, one month can become

Two weeks can become

One week can become

Opening night can become

Two more performances can become

One more night can become

One more act can become

One more song can become

One more clap.

.

The conclusion is a knife to your chest.

You have watched this thing,

This beautiful thing, grow from infancy.

It became your life.

And now, it is leaving.

The papers are being collected.

The paintings are being packed up.

The dresses are removed from lockers.

You feel hollow, knowing this part

Of your life is moving on,

Preparing to become someone else's.

.

You hope they do it justice.

.

In a few days time, you will finally

Cease to cry over the loss.

It will become a fond memory.

You'll remember the laughter,

The failures nobody caught,

The countless hours spent

In the auditorium, redoing

Scene after scene after scene.

.

There will be no more years of this.

No more second chances

To experience the creation

Of a masterpiece.

No more Hello Dolly's.

No more Annie's.

No more King and I's.

It's all the past, not even yours

To relive, to hold onto forever.

.

They become memories.