Untitled Ballerina Poem.
By Richard Henry.
Have no idea of where to go,
The ballerina twirls and prances,
Thus begins the midnight dances.
Whipping winds and a frozen sky,
And a bitter cold that will not die,
But leap she will to spite the cold,
Reality soon slips from her hold.
Winter does win and drops her dead,
The merry is over and life is shed.
There she lies, folded and frozen,
But there on her face is a smirking grin.
Go back home.
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