If She Should Die
July 28, 2011
"Trembling fingers, my little puppet,
How could they ever play with trembling hands?"
"I'm sorry, I'll try harder next time"
"Your voice is coarse, you can't do it anymore."
And with one lost battle,
The whole world just comes dwindling down,
Not in one act of pure destruction,
But of a long progression of decay.
Decay me, she screams,
Standing among fields of stone blocks,
But she will never die,
Like the poured cement around her,
She watches as all her friends take hold
Of organic decomposition.
It's science, she thinks,
But what science renders the world a stone carcass?
No life of movement,
No light of life.
She is practising.
Dancing by the light of the sun,
Bearing down like fire inches away.
She is practising,
But never getting better.
She spins, standing upon one foot,
The last statue of New York City,
The young girl, come to life.
She dances through the streets,
Pirouetting, twirling and twisting,
Hitting scrap metal cars and brick walls,
Bruising hands and limbs whole,
Falling on the sidewalk,
Battered legs and torn dress.
The lonely survivor,
Of a fighting generation.
Integrity fading out of her body,
In a trail of blood and blue cloth,
Scattered about the city.
All the nights she sang alone,
The lonely melody of a crushed piano,
The silence of life, living by the moon.
She spins without seeing,
Falling and savagely dragging herself up,
She pirouettes, she leaps,
She falls back down,
And in one single crash,
She is broken.
The ribbon in her hair floats slowly down,
Landing on the broken statue of a dancing girl.
Her face proud, her body in stone pieces.
She was made hollow,
But now sits in ashes of pure concrete.
And the only colour to be seen for miles,
Is the white ribbon,
That once sat in her hair.