Ill Fated 

And he didn’t know the masquerade,

Stumbling against the erractic steps of her jagged spirit sway.

She lifted her arms in pain, praise dance born of sorries and goodbyes.

He grabbed for her hands, tango shifting in his eyes.

She slapped his fingers away, whirling cascadcsding into holy rondo.

He retreated lost and bowing, his head touching the floor

Where she lay quivering, her heart willing a more perfect tempo

From his stiff neck and rigid back. Rain falling from her soul,

She rose to greet his pose but found no way inside,

His stance staying solid and cold,  a perfectly jagged glide.

Form perfect, his hover met her poetry with the most formal of prose

His andante banging fruitlessly against her allegro.

A pause before a shimmer breaking the pace of his mambo.

They stood empty and unmoving, en pointe toe to tapping toe.

He didn’t stand a chance,

And his movements told her so.

He didn’t know the dance,

Yet she could not tell him so.

She couldn’t teach her dance,

Though he wanted to know.

She didn’t stand a chance,

And his movements told her so.

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