Then there was a life for art.

Clenching teeth and eyes moist with tears withheld.
A swivel through air that was circled by bated breaths, a tense silence.
Another swerve, feet that were accustomed to follow the beat, defying science and the mind.

Raising the dust off the loose foot boards on the floor, the anger of the womb of a hurricane, she stopped, tapped her toes, her eyes full of desire, and as she extended her right leg toward to front, the seams of her plaid skirt lifted, revealing skin as smooth as satin, waiting to be tickled by the meanders on a fingertip.
And just as appetizing as it was to the eyes, she took a step backward, her skirt slipped along her smooth skin.
Like the drapes fall in the lover's room.

Her anklets echoed through the empty room, through the loose floor boards, into the room below, resonating distress of a trapped fly.
She felt like a ribbon, being casually fluttered in the air.

A red ribbon standing out in all aspects of texture, color and ease as opposed to the pitch black setting of a dingy room, been shut for years.

She was fluttering, with a broken wing.

She was twitching as gracefully as there could be but she still felt like a fish out of water.

She drifted like an angel falling from the sky.

Exasperated, she lifted her feet off the ground, hoping the ground beneath her feet would open into a void, with the outside pressure so high that her body would burst into pieces of flesh strewn across barren death land where scavengers and eagles feast on the remnants of the departed.

A lift so easily executed, like a floating balloon, suddenly, she ricocheted as it was burst in its glory to drift as opposed to the others.
Pinned to the wall, tied in chains, bound by flashes of anger that nullify the heat in her body, letting her cool off to frost bitten skin as she conquered each spasm her mind put her body, through.

She landed on the floor, a thud, and she lay there on the cold floor, with her cheeks pressed into the dusty wood.
And like a crackling whip, she moaned, a sharp piercing scream, that tore open the drapes of putrid doom, of the night of ravens and howling curs.
And she bawled into the silence, screaming at its intensity, she had to run away from silence.

It was not long before her finale, that she performed the same piece, and her experience and practice gave her away, she tripped over her brimming skirt, ripping it with the edges of her sharp ruby anklet, tripping over the seams of her lucky dress, she fell gracefully onto the floor, her rubies scattered across the grand stage.
The silence now, as opposed to the silence during her performance, were so different she cringed.
The pain and blood that blinded her eyes making them moist, added to the tearing dryness in her ears.

The silence now, was of a disappointed audience, that were once in reverential fear of her grandeur and poise, when she danced fiercely.
And when she fell, a mighty fall.
They were quiet.


The floor board was as firm as it had been, loose but firm.
Yes, like her, talented but a failure.
Sustainability is like the fertility of a womb, it has value only till you can justify its existence.

To my art, to yours.