Her thin-lipped smile fell into her breath,
Air withering soundless touching and melting
Warm and human, she traced their eyes,
Their whispering mouths;
Curtained by narrow cracks of applause,
She danced, a delicate innocence
Into another time,
Contracted by her mother, outlined in a dress,
Emptied of beauty.
Her flesh cold, drenched in leaps and pirouettes,
Stalky legs empty of complaint;
She will lose herself in the ritual of the dance,
Yet, her movements flake off,
Shingled to a floor;
Her fabulous day ended.
The grim gargoyles squatting in seats,
Flint eyes fixed on a delicate child,
In hate, to come, later,
Into her dreams.
Their menace wrapped in bleeding hearts
At a patron level,
Steadfast in a grievance; she, pale as death,
Ousted from a sleep, outcast like a dead Jesus;
Her soul drained like water out of a church hole,
Buried in slate, clean, with her face vague as a fog;
Mute as a baby.
Swaddled in white, tending, without stopping, those
Turnstiles, framed in a suburb.
Turning. Turning. Greased machines for the rich.
She weeps. Weeps for one last dance.
The thought rots, rots in the hollow of her skull.
Copyright © 08/27/18 lance sheridan®