Grace Moves The Air

The smell of perspiration and determination sweeps you up in a cloud,
The music though a whisper haunts your head aloud,
The aged, weary satin tickles your feet pink,
Although she pirouettes, never falter, she halts along the brink,
The cursing personality, the breaking heart of love,
The audience shows no signs of whispers, no sound from above,
The claps come soft and lovely muttering forgiveness as they go,
Because their hearts are broken and the performance is a flow,
Then piece by piece they stitch up, their crumbled, fumbled hearts,
Then the satin fixes what it had once torn apart,
The pointe shoe drifts above them all,
Destined not about to fall,
A flutter blows her flying, but that she does not care,
A goddess has awoken, a goddess of the air.