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.