January 21, 2012
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The ground,
Grass tips laced with frost,
The footprints lightly etched.
Softly, the wind whispers
It’s lullaby.
And the dancer,
Spinning a twirl of the lucid,
The painted pirouette.
Delicately she spins her
Red ribbon
Through her dance.
And the chill of the gale,
Alongside the chill of her soul,
Flakes the rhythmic steps into
Something broken.
The imprinted feet
Now sunk deep in.
And pale goes the dancer,
Frozen goes the dance.
And onto the ground,
Grass tips laced with frost,
Goes the red ribbon.

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