A shifting, single bow dances across;
The fading light is draped along the floor
Fairy pink shoes, thrust in the air, are locked
The scent of sweat leaks out from every pore.
The hardwood floor cries out from the footprints.
Bows wrapped around clear throats bow and flip with
Practice. They are not girls but ghostly glints,
The sort one hears in hushed stories and myths.
The flimsy tulle and silk flash like spider patterns,
Casting mystic shadows upon each web.
Their curls fall out from crafted spins and turns
But they don't pause to try to touch their head.
But what one cannot see is they can't move
The windows hold this image they can't lose.