She dances, she moves
Her head, her legs, her feet
In imperfect harmony.
Her hair struggles to break free
Of its band. Adding an imperfection
In the silence, on with her reverie;
The music’s in her head. Her grin
Tells us she’s mad. But we, as we
Stand still in the silence, and watch
Her move, grow jealous silently
Of the madness. We want to be mad too.
To dance and move, with the music
In our heads. We wear our lips thin.
While, on her face she wears the grin.