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) |