The Ballerina

The ballerina, 
who twirls like the world’s finest carousel,
does she know?
The leaps, the bounds,
the strides she takes,
landing hard on buckling knees.
Is it happiness she feels?
Pirouetting across the stage, 
beneath the blinding lights,
dancing through the night.
The crowd is silent,
bathed in black like crows 
watching from a street wire. 
“I’m in love,” she says, 
though her lips do not move. 
She tells them through her arms,
through her legs,
her torso, her hands, her toes. 
She screams it at them, 
“I’m in love! I am happy!”
The arch of her back, 
the thin line of her mouth, 
she’s yelling with all her might. 
Twirling, and spinning, night,
after night, after night. 
Wishing, hoping, 
for her dream to last. 
But how, how can she dance,
when her joints ache, 
when her toes curl, 
when her hair falls loose from it’s bun? 
The ballerina, 
who twirls like the world’s finest carousel, 
does she know?
Does she know what will happen when the music stops?