Knitting, kneading, knocking pain,
As pirouttés and piqués slowly take aim.
Floor presses into the delicate box,
Which toes and satin carefully lock.

Flirty ribbons fly through humid air,
As promenades spin on a childish dare.
Pink shoe’s muscles expand to relevé,
As straight toes twist like molded clay.

The dance continues to cycle on and on,
The pointes forever yearn the floor to be gone.
A bourrée paints artful scars on soft skin,
As oh so slowly the music aches to begin.

The pretty pink pointes glide wildly in tune,
No dancer in sight, just shoes in a room.