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A poem for the feet first dance ensemble:
They stalk the stage with confidence and gracefully catch the audience in spell, hauntingly beautiful belles.
They prance gait and bow together, separate souls united in sacred thought.
Their allure humbles me – can I believe these eyes? How could I ever be seen as lovely by comparison? How do each of these beauties feel, set in motion together yet standing apart. Does the dance bring freedom?
As the show ends I tuck myself away, humiliated knowing I had the opportunity to be one of them, and chose another path. How will I ever be a vixen now? They’ve swept me off my dancing beat.
(sent to me this morning by an appreciative audience member)
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