The Dance
Standing upon the stage,
Dressed all in white,
Hair an a bun spun with feathers,
Poised, graceful akin to a swan,
Starting to dance almost gliding,
Up onto your toes you spin on one,
Jumping, leaping twirling across the stage,
All to soon the movement stopped,
You drop to your knees arms outstretched,
The swan is dying,
She is no more.
Copyright © Tracy Mcfayden | Year Posted 2021
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