It seems as if the tip of her toe
Had been eloquently fabricated
To provide a façade of glass
Perhaps to disguise that what lays beneath
Is the same as yours

She was a fragile being
Who pranced across the wood
As if the branches of the trees
Sole purpose was to grow
To form to the shape of her feet

Her lips curled up
Faintly but noticeable
At the sight of an astonished audience
But only ever so slightly
As her lips would never be able to relinquish a breath

Her arms shaped with a certain curvature
That would be impossible to replicate
Even the attempts of the smooth glass in the foreground
Would not be able to imitate such perfection

But the main variance was
You could not escape between
The crevices of her palms
To find a deeper meaning
She was a figure of illumination

I suppose it was when I grasped
You could not even attempt at reflection
Of the proximity of the glass to perfection
That the ballerina was left
With an empty audience