The Dancer

Photo by Townsend Walton on Unsplash.

Like the inner workings of a fuchsia flower
The dancer moves
She spins
A perfectly-oiled gear
In an otherworldly machine
That was built to save us all.

She moves mountains when she advances
Valleys are carved and deserts are flooded
The storms rage and then are still
They push, they shove, but they behave and don’t destroy
They engulf us all
We merely succumb, and then all is gone
The dancer rests.

She can never rest for long
She must again jump and turn
Twirl with her head turned to the sky
Glide softly from door to door
Either she dances
Or she dreams
Of dancing.

Movement hides the darkness
Hovering in the depths of her mind
She cannot keep still, or the thoughts will engulf her
So she prances away
Lifts her head to the sky
Closes her eyes
Dance!

The beauty of her moving body
Feeds a monster in her hungry soul
More! More! It shouts.
She can do nothing
But try to satiate it
Knowing
That will never be.

She will never be enough
Her spins will never be quite as stable
As she wishes
Her legs will never be as strong
As she craves
Her movements will never be as soft
As are her dreams…

But the beast clamours!
She moves
A smile paints itself on her face
Imperfect
She dances.