(no subject)
I've seen Death dance. She held a balde in her perfect white teeth, and fluttered across her stage in satin red pointe shoes. The audience knew no voice, and were hushed by her sorrowful movements. She captured beauty, her hair cascading down around her gaunt face and frame. She was broken, in too many ways to count, yet she continued. She leaped and turned, round and round till her onlookers were dizzy and out of breath. Yet she remained as perfect as the unperfect can be. She slowed her movements. Still softly she leapt and chassed, and then the blade fell. She caught it in an outstretched palm, a perfect fit, perfect timing. All meant for a stage. Drops of red crept down her white gown as she raised her hands to first position. Then slowly they fell to fifth. The knife flashed in the bright stage lights. I closed my eyes and when they opened she appeared again. Her hands outstretched. Searching and clawing, the gashes in her wrist just as elegently flowing life as her continuouse movements. And still Death did not stop. Her gown was pink with shame and her efforts were not even laboured as she spilled forth her life, out to the floor. She did not stop till the floor was so slick that it became impossible to continue, and even then, she made a poetic love to the floor in a somber graceful dance. She rolled over her shoulder, pushing herself back with those broken hands. She looked up into the eyes of her peers, and stopped... and a baby cried, and society stood. There was no encore.