melancholy
she wears her melancholy well
if fits her like a twilight satin dress
that, clinging to her spirit in a tight embrace
would vulnerably leave 
her soul exposed and bare for all to see 
she's stunning seen in little more
than nightfall shadows blue on midnight black
her dusky hair arranged in gentle disarray
she looks on life's account
with eyes that mirror darkgray autumn skies 
she's learned to move in graceful steps
upon the dancefloor of her life's abyss
in fluent wariness her feet seek stable ground 
her shoulders draped in shade
she'll meet your gaze: this dance is hers alone 
Jon Bohrn (1998)

 

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