Alone She Dances

Alone she dances
always alone
in an empty room of bare boards and peeling paint 
but surrounded in her head by an attentive
adoring crowd.
Alone she dances
lost in the movements
her feet bleeding like a teabag in hot water
prints like spilled wine tracking her endless brisés
her graceless glissades
While in her minds eye the performance unspools like the most delicate of linen
and she knows she should stop daydreaming about her own death
only so she can practice more fully its performance
should stop praying for a faulty noose
but on a locked and hidden level wonders if
like a thistle in a kiss
the pain is brief but the rewards exquisite
and she dances on
alone except for a pallid reflection in a battered mirror
she dances….

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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