A dancer’s body is art.
It is a blank canvas,
painted by the rhythm of music,
their body sways in the wind.
Akin to stained glass,
others wouldn’t dare touch the fragile composition,
as they know, it takes a special person
to mold them into shape.
Their feet are covered in roses,
continued to be crushed again and again.
Relevé, en pointe, the thorns dig into their toes,
their tears only water the flower,
the thorns take root in their soles.
If a dancer goes to expel the seeds planted in their stomach,
they will only find more roses, stuck in their esophagus,
choking on the beauty of their own art,
starved by expectation and applause.
The world feels like it’s spinning.
The curtain closes and the dancer collapses,
the flowers overtake their body.
What a beautiful work of art.