The dancer twirls around the floor
Dancing for her own reflection,
Mirrored there upon the walls.
Why would she wish to dance with another,
When no one else understands the music’s call.
“Oh you pretty thing,” the music acclaims her.
The one and only, the belle, the dance desires her.
“Oh you pretty thing,” with every swish and glide,
The ecstasy, as the music rides her.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


3 thoughts on “You

  1. Pingback: Christmas and a Ho, Ho, Ho | Made of sticks and stones

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