Ballet

The pianist

Plays a

Gentle

Playful

Tune.

She’s quite

A Dancer

As she spins

On her toes.

And she spun

Like a tornado.

A tornado

Of Fury

Beauty

And Love.

But not of

So that

Men

Can stare

But a mere

Love

For art.

And for the

Art

Of the body

And mind.

She slowly

Casts her hand out

Gracefully

As she holds

To the banister.

She knows

That she has this

Down.

With her

Black hair

Tied in a bun

And a pink torso

With black leggings

And black sleeves.

With mirrors

That surround her.

She moves

Gracefully

On the floor

As if

She is gliding.

Outside

It is around

Seven o’clock

And many people

Just walk by

Not noticing

Her art.

She says nothing

Yet she says

Everything.

Her moves

Explain of

Sorrow.

About how she

Wanted

Her lover

To come back

As she crouched

To a heap

On the floor.

She wanted

To feel

Warmth

One last time

But it was

Too late

For it.

And so

Through her movements

She told

That she

Would wait.

Wait to grow old

And wait to die

So that she could

Be whole again.

As she stretches

Her arms

As if just waking up

And closing her eyes

As if imagining

That she was flying.

Truly

She is dancing

Of becoming

An angel.

With Beautiful Wings

So that she could

Rise up

And be whole

With her

Lover

Once more.

But she knows

That this isn’t going

To happen soon.

And so

She slowly moves

To a heap

On the floor

With her fingers and hands

Resting in front of her

As she tucked her legs in

And bowed her head down.

The lights dim

Focusing on her.

The music ceases

On restful notes.

She is all

That is left

In a world

Of Shadows

And black.