Art of the Balletic Type

Grace of pureness with the sweetest of song
Blurs of Degas visions floating along
Fire that licks at the tip of your tongue
Swift and Silent, with the mark of scorched awe

Daring is proof of its fatal attraction
to anyone who has the reaction.
A language of movement
A movement that speaks
Never is there a moment
Where action is meek
Cold shivers cringe, as well as the arrival of sweat.
Even my energy
will never be swept.

And as I drift far and wide
Each day I have strengthened my art and my pride.





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