It's just poetry, it won't bite

Dancer on the parchment


06.14.19 Posted in today's words by

Fabrice Poussin lives and writes in Rome, Georgia. 

Dancer on the parchment
By Fabrice Poussin

She floats, light with wings of light and breeze,
hummingbird her little heart racing through life,
she dances in a series of still frames entangled,
her hazy costume barely hiding the beautiful soul.

In a semi darkness of the corner, under the stairs, dusty,
she ties the shoe while her mind wonders in dream alive;
will he come again this night to hold her in her journey
into art, emotion, to take her hand in his pounding chest?

Her body seems real, yet overwhelmed by her truth,
such gentleness mostly unknown, she is no prisoner
of an aching calf. She is free, as her pirouette sings,
and creates a melody in the surrounding sphere.

A thousand thousands miles away, she is here,
under the stairs dusty, and she dreams with her chest,
heart pulsating as she knows the unusual happening,
of now, trying to touch her yet too afraid.

She has not moved, statue, she smiles in the moment,
events are many in her, no one else can see,
inside the life is multiplicity, chaos almost,
outside, nothing, a warm Rodin, a soft Moore.

It is done, he has come and still she remains,
her smile subtle tells all to the one who knows,
hearts came to meet and the ballet invisible,
is love uncorrupt treasure in her breast universal.

The ideal of a Degas, she has escaped and is
beauty pure and endless, made of stars and precious stones,
of fairy dust and of a deep breath, she is complete
in her the infinite is, in her to find the comfort of a home.



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