8 May 2012
Our stage is lit, the curtain stirs, a dancer takes the floor,
She flicks her hips, throws her tired toes across the boards,
A draping gown with sequins flashing light across the seams,
Each movement pulses passion from her deepest darkest dreams.
Terrified of time and cracks appearing on her face,
Furiously whirling, like a dervish through the place,
If spinning turned the clock back she would be a little girl,
A shock of raven hair on a complexion white as pearl.
One by one her garments fight to claim the solid ground,
A slight reveal, she cranes her neck and flashes eyes around,
There's no applause, the nurses simply lead her to the bed,
"The poor old woman", they conclude, "she's dancing in her head".
The Burlesque Dancer • Opuss № I