The Ballet of Life

The curtain wakes to coiled innocence, born to the awing eyes of many as it unfurls,

Beneath the blanket of crisp silence sits a girl; webbed in white that bleeds in to the darkness,

The first chord of the violin cuts in to the stillness and gives rise to her, body curved as though she were a calla lily, buckling under the weight of a dew drop,

The performance has begun.

A mother’s warmth melts on her skin as she takes her first steps; like an emergent butterfly with paper wings,

The espouse of the harp guides her liberty as she elegantly performs a child’s dream,

Her poise grows stronger as the hands of guardianship dissipate with a whisper of belief,

Arms opened for embrace as she glides along the boards of independence, danced many times before, engrained with expectation,

The calm descends in to beautiful chaos as the orchestra ignites passions flames; a sculpted figure emerges red from the embers,

The flute stalks her as she fiercely circles the flames; her hair fanning violently as she strides in to its heart,

He mirrors her, his breath tracing the contours of her neck as the spotlight frames their unity, abandoning all else in its shadow,

Entangled, they transcend in to a raw performance of speechless poeticism,  

His strength raises her up to the heavens, her dress glowing like satin rubies as she’s caressed by the flames of love,

Suddenly, the startling trumpets of clarity sound as she cascades to his feet like the last petal of a fading rose,

Charred, she lay motionless, the empathetic notes of the cello pooling beneath her as she bares witness to his abandon,

Dozens of feet now dance on the ashes, the show must go on.

The faces of children shroud her as the roll of the drums resound in her hollow heart,

Wrenched to her feet, she dances the steps of her past, followed by the eyes of new innocents,

“Don’t be led astray”, she whispers, “we are the marionettes of the man”.

A life lived, a love felt,  a wisdom taught; she takes her last bow to the echo of the titan cymbals, fading to one final silence.

1 Comment

  1. Dominique De-Light on April 14, 2014 at 8:02 am

    I love the images in this piece ‘body curved as though she were a calla lily’, ‘ like an emergent butterfly with paper wings’ and phrases such as ‘A mother’s warmth melts on her skin’ – they make the piece very atmospheric.

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