The Choreography of the Ménage

Broken is my back now after the bends 

But stronger turn out I in the end. 

Too hard core of focus one area receives  

And left are muscles with strength of need. 

Mother and father, the top they take  

Holding the power of if I gain or break. 

Across the floor in those soft pink boxes brisé, brisé, brisé 

Unknown to the damage done and worked by bourrée, bourrée, bourrée. 

Grand Jete, I through the air like a fallen feather  

Unknown to the broken toes, I’m foolish to think them better.  

Perfect smiles, haircuts and dress they may 

Know but only I, of the dark inner family rain. 

The pointe path is simply not the delicate moves and pink satin shoes,  

But it’s the everlasting commitment and unpredictable time I choose 

Foolish again am I to think that the salty clouded sweat, blisters bloody, 

Mud colored scabs and more time of rest aren’t required for recovery. 

Those God born relations in no time I desire fixed, 

When reality requires more time, so my desire nixed. 

Say I can that I possess a love for this cavernous art 

For love, I rather rest now then later entirely depart. 

By itself consistency ruins the joy of my routine, 

Moving from my art keeps the art’s spontaneity. 

At home when occurs the ill pattern of black fire 

Escaping from that pattern, for some long I desire. 

My one soul and body all of this work put on 

Should I remain with this challenge or be gone?  

These blood relations to me they were gifted  

But to be a successor in this ménage am I enabled?