Cory Ruda (7/31/91)
There before me the Dancer Begins.
Fans of white paper accent the untainted ivory of the hands clutching them,
As her movements slip seamlessly together,
a halo the color of night appears,
a flowing river of the Dancer's raven locks.
She is Beauty; She is Perfection,
Yet I know that She can never be taken,
Never be held, or She would never dance again.
Her footsteps will never be silenced.
Comments about this poem (The Dancer by Cory Ruda )
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