Glass porcelain erodes me now
from the world and some notebooks
that Iíll never fill;
Staring straight at the figure
sleek with pastel hues,
and engrossed in shades of velvet-like fuchsia.
How it dances behind that oaken covering,
to welcome you with a routine
it has practiced all its lifeó
Turning and turning,
away from the world,
forever encased in this dead sycamore;
to never dance,
until the box is open.
To never awaken,
until itís told.
I wonder if there is such a ballerina in my heart;
Only dancing behind a thick,
Will I ever open,
Turning freely in the moonlight,
Without having someone open the box
Just for me?
Perhaps that wish will be granted
(before I trap myself into a maze).
Maybe thereís more to life
than just wondering about simple things
such as these.
But for now,
Iíd just like to look at this ballerina,
Made of only glass and porcelain.