It swirls as it moves,

an off grace about it,

like a dancer on an abandoned

stage,

waiting for her audience anyway,

practicing as she goes,

her pale skin hiding her

rage.

Only on the surface does she

boil, covered by foundations.

Somehow she stays animateed,

her every twirl, every move is

calculated.

Measured and repeated in

perfect time with the movement

of the wind, yet her actions are

slightly sluggish, vintage, completely

outdated.

Because everyone’s

gone.

And now the recital is all

wrong.

She just wants someone

to sit, to watch, see her true

form,

her passion, her fluidity,

the calm in the eye of the

storm.