Flickers in her eyes like candlelit fairy lights, a pair of wings of gossamer, she breathes and heaves her magic all over, lightness is present all around. Her sparkles cover her fragile form, yet ignorant or impervious are those who refuse her sight and her magnificent airy sound, then all of a sudden, a box slams! Something hits the ground. She’s captured like a ballerina, presented in a crass jewellery box, whom dances in circles and circles all around, all day and all night and all the same. She adheres to certain requirements, the lightness, the frail form, she meets their expectant looks, but her interior melody is strong, well composed, and her heart, it has its own set of wings, too. She leaps and bounds and twirls around societal requirements more and more, she weaves dictated beauty before scrutiny as though ribbons which dance in the wind and plait themselves further together, favourite colours of pink, yellow, blue, purple, and green. But, Ballerina, dear dancer! Once born a free sprite, tied down, though maybe not, she won’t allow expectations to make her stagnant, her jewellery box to rot, she is impeded, somewhat, though if necessary, she knows how to leave, it sounds simpler than reality, more often than not. She'll simply stop spinning her pirouette, become still once more, and those observers, with their child-like wonder will soon grow bored of her; close they will her Reality’s door. Magically, she may return to a sprite, wings of glittering gossamer, free to take her flight, and flickers in her widened eyes which will dance and flare like delicate flames aided by greedy kerosene. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by Ocdesignzz from Pixabay
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