The Little Ballerina

The Little Ballerina At the same old corner, at the same old crossing, was a large white mansion with a girl’s spirit roaming. Wearing heavy damp shoes and dewed bits of cloth, a man enters, making little of the little ballerina’s wrath. Wiping off the caked mud on his shoe, as he climbed up the stairs of Italian marble, with his top tilted to see the dresser move, a hand gripped his hip, thrashing him down. A horrible face that occurred before him, smiled showing its sharpened pearls. With fright flowing down his spine, the waft of blood made him hurl. Wiggling away from the heavy grope, Smuggling down his own breath, he ran out of the palace, and pledged to never look at it forth.