She dances, and dances her way out,
of her life’s every malfunctioning shout.
You dance like a blithe fairy, they said,
but were clueless about her sea of sorrows, that she’d wed.
Every twirl is an expression of her twisted journey,
every hold, of her restricted life.
Every bend reflects her crushed soul,
She’s incomplete, but she seems whole.
Inly wounded, with an empty pillion,
Yet, each grand jeté of hers is an image of her flying off to her oblivion.
Every swing of her body drops the load of her troubles, little by little,
She sways like bright iridescent bubbles.
Dancing is her flowing escape,
Her dress is her feathered cape.
She drifts into some other realm,
where she is an exquisite gem.
Her pulse is her only music,
as she is finally free.