She’s
ever with grace, to ballet storms, a sight for sullen
souls.
We live it in prose, to act it in verse, a sphere of
antiques.
Its fractured peace, quiescent sorrow, and lofty
woes.
I dream a vision, to shade with ink, to costume
a
future; for pain is gray, painted in black and white,
mourning
auditions. She lilts in anguish, to tip a
mountain,
knitting comforts. We love an unseen, forever
cheerful,
preaching academics. I reach for texture, to
feign
for ignorance, and offer but a smidgen of pie. She
laughs
a sun, to scan expressions, and turns quickly.
There’s
nightly hooks, parody chides, a world of stress
and
lights; where paradise is gray, ever too far, and but a
moment;
and what to give—a patient heart, a living
sanctum?
I ask—content with nothing, for she gives a
shattered
soul. It’s ever a cinema, a world to please, a
tacit
music. She tips a toe, to dance a waltz, praying for a
hinge.
I call sunlight, a tree of leaves, to surface her smile.
She touches sky, to
live a liturgy, spinning through lights.
