She dances with wings,
While covered with precious stones and white hues.
She's a painting,
Made of an impressionist's brush strokes of lavender petals.
An orchestra follows her along the performance,
As she leaps with the grace of an angel,
To the tragedies of songs.
I've never heard her speak,
But oh, how she flies.
She heaves steps through French movements and Russian notes,
As her twirls transcend language.
Her feet bleed,
Her arms ache,
And her costume of feathers outweighs her.
She is a ballerina.
Pain is not something felt until violins stop echoing across the theatre,
When she's left with empty chairs,
Youth that escapes her,
And a black swan.
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Muses to Kalliope
PoetryThis poetry collection explores regret, isolation, philosophy, with a sprinkling of guilt. Historical references are encouraged! If you're just going through the motions of life, whether it be blissful or difficult, these poems are great companions...
