Silent Dancers
Silent Dancers
A laboured breath,
A rythmic chore,
'Tis life or death,
No less, No more.
A pirouette,
A pas de deux,
In pressed flannelette
And brushed faux fur.
A piano mute,
An audience blind,
With a silent flute
And limbs entwined.
A song, a dance
It matters not,
In time a glance
Is soon forgot.
The critiques kill
Both girl and boy
Who lay too still
Upon silent joy.
In naked flame
Each others skin
Stirs, in shame,
The beast within.
And I, the score,
The melody,
Can play no more
Love's tragedy.
No rapturous cries,
No encore calls,
The audience rise,
The curtain falls.
|