She's poetry in motion; she dances a dream,

She swirls; she whirls, as delicate as she seems,

She moves with a passion; an elusive fire,

And lost in her music, the dance her desire,

Her feet play the beat on the bruising land,

And the angels fly from the point of her hand,

No music to accompany the fiery motion,

She drives through the air with a motor's propulsion,

A flick of the head and her hair's dancing too,

Like it's trapped on the thousand winds that blew

And fanned the fire of her prancing soul,

She's in her own world now she's out of control,

She's smiling beneath the mask of expression,

That glint in her eye that raises the tension,

An arabesque daydream; she flies through the air,

Twisting and turning she's everywhere,

She fills up the stage with her echoing song,

It tastes like temptation, a beauty that's wrong,

The points of her feet turn the floor into flames,

And the fire it grows till it cannot be tamed,

And she's in the centre; the glorious delight,

A dream bringing light into the blackening night,

Her hand hangs for a second, the dance it pause-

s but that's not the end it's just the first clause,

She paints a picture of a glorious sound,

That can, only in her perfect motion, be found,

As sharp as the point of a smoothly curved sword,

She cuts through the air with a balance absurd,

And yet she knows not what comes next in her mind,

Just letting her feet plot the path she will find,

With the fluidity of a river and an endless scream,

With the energy and laughter of a bubbling stream,

With the stars in her eyes and her intricate feet,

She can feel the hysteria as her heart pumps the beat

Of the music only she hears inside of her ears,

As she dances away all her worries and fears,

A cataclysm of cacophonous din,

The dance that she's steadily drowning in,

A carefree calamity chaotically carved,

Dissonant beauty; a pure work of art,

And then on the tip of a dancer's curved toe,

The dance pauses, and stops. And comes to a close.