Brisk dancer I move with such grace

Across a worn wooden floor

An artist has forgotten all.

All hurt and pain—vanished

As if to have been lifted from this thin air

Music filling a closed in space

No sound of the rushed traffic passing

For I have lost track of time

Into my own thoughts I delve

Counting in eighths to a rhythmic beat

Absent minded, I recognize my place

I am home.

No thoughts of what happens when

The music may stop or the light becomes dim,

But to keep going

And embrace a thought of movement.

Controlled dancer, will I ever quit?

My soul has become the song itself.

Without hesitation I glide, not quite to the beat

But to a muse. My guide.

My own footsteps.