Sundays In Santorini He Promised Poem by Vashita Moondra

Who was I?
Merely a dancer, blind in his love

But for him, the director
A little plaything, a jester

To me he made a false vow
Of a life together and how

Of ringing applause
Across the Seven Seas

Sundays in Santorini he promised
With Wine and some twirls to leave me famished

Mondays would pass by in a haze
Last night's trance still visible in my gaze

Tuesdays the torture would begin in the show
An unending stream of dance numbers would flow

Wednesday I'd be withered to the bone
Hoping time would halt, with a moan

Thursdays he'd throw me on the couch
Have his rough way with me. Ouch!

Friday the torture would begin anew
I'd twirl away my bone and sinew

Saturdays would take it a notch above
After all his crude moves he'd profess his love

Sundays in Santorini he promised