bodies moving

If they don’t dance ballet, they aren’t dancers
It’s locked up tighter than a Balanchine
We can’t change a position without getting
Three signatures and a visit from the Foundation
Pinching as a form of communication
The constant awareness and inescapable
Neglect of minor pains in the feet
And continual care to keep them from
Getting worse, rituals and therapies
A relationship to music they don’t make
Only hear, no more than the rest of us
An art form wholly dependent on another
Dependent on the audience as well
For in dance, the performer cannot
Witness the performance, blind
Rewarded uniquely by their perspective
Knowing what it feels to dance
They speak of sharing, creating, spreading
Their art, their vision, their perfection
The sum total of their endless dedication
But we don’t see what they see nor
Do they see themselves as we do
We witness their motion and expression
But the only thing we share
Is the applause when we tell them
How great they truly are
Ballet started as parading before the King
But evolved into admiration of the form
The young male and female bodies moving

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, novels, personal, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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