NaPoWriMo 2018 day 14: dreaming of ballet

 

The ballet of my little girl dreams

was pink and soft and elastic.

The ballet of my little girl dreams

was idyllic, real and lasting.

 

The ballet of my grown-up dreams

is harsh and cruel and tight.

The ballet of my grown-up dreams

is what will never become might.

pic credit: czalewsik

 

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a poem for my pointes

inktuition pointes

You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,

a doting reminder of

what I quickly outgrew.

Opened, it exudes a scent of resin

that transports me back

to being eleven.

One touch of your fragrant satin

and I’m back on stage in

a pirouetting pattern.

Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,

your ribbons a symbol of our tie.

To you my love I’ve always shown.

From that first day you were moulded to me.

You are singularly mine, today,

as I was back then: size three.

The day we met, I became whole.

I wept when ballet lessons stopped.

Only the smell of you, now, helps console.

This is for Day 7 of NaPoWriMo