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Elliott G May 17
The chandelier still hangs high
above the wooden ballroom floor;
Its rusting branches,
even though they're made of gold,
wrap around the orange coils
which lie dead amidst the night.
The clock strikes midnight,
yet no bells are to be heard;
The carpet leading up the staircase
to the podium in the room.
Crimson, velvet, and scarlet
covered with a thin layer of dust;
even if unused, it's seen an eternity of lives.
The broken windows lend themselves
to silver strings of moonlight,
which slither through them;
venomous beasts waiting to strike.
Falling in straight rays,
the delta of light's rivers
crystalize the concrete walls,
with a tapestry of the finest silk,
intertwined with threads of
fake gold.
The stillness grows thick,
Fog of dawn refuses to leave,
lingering to see the spectacle unfold.
A figure at the top of the staircase,
the spotlight of moonshine
leaking through the dome atop the room,
caresses its curves, swims into crevasses
highlights the bold edges,
paints the skin silver, the gown royal red.
In one hand, bare, slim, and pale white,
fingers tighten slightly into a fist.
In the other, a shard of broken glass
one arm held up to the sky,
to the heavens, reaching out to God
Yet God had stopped listening millennia ago.
The other hand, stretched out slowly making its way down
Driving the glass through the layers of skin
slowly, rhythmically, decisively.
A slow, small stream of red
slithers down the arm,
grows larger with every inch it moves;
and the stream never stops.
The stream grows to a river,
The river to a sea,
reaching the elbow below,
now spewing red liquid
faster and faster onto the marble floor.
Another hand to the sky,
now this one bare in all its beauty.
Another blade driven through the artery,
Another stream flows down the forearm.
The figure in silence drops the shard
folds its hands in front,
and stands facing out
to the world it will depart.
The floor now a lake;
the thick liquid doesn't stop,
The figure caresses its chin,
Slips the gown down to its hips
Bathing in the moonlight one last time
Before it closes its eyes
Stares into the red Ballroom
Now red of its own accord.
** TW **
- s*icide
- s*lf harm
- blood
Francesca Rose May 2020
What I feel for you is akin to how the floorboards hug the wall at the corner of the ballroom.
Smothered in gleaming tile, I lie beneath, fighting to breathe at the very seams, so close to you.
I am worn, and old, and my nails are ripped to shreds as I claw my way through the throng of porcelain pink people to you.
The touch of me against the very smallest part of you is enough for me to fall still and gaze not at the dancers in their gowns but the unassuming dark corner towards which I endlessly reach.
Bhill May 2020
It's been so so long
It's been so long since I saw
Since I saw life dance

Life dancing the bop and jitterbug
Life dancing to rock and roll
Life dancing to country and ballroom
Life dancing to anything
I'm sure we will experience the dance again

Brian Hill - 2020 # 129
Find your life dance.
Matthew Jan 2019
Lively and Jumping
A vibrance felt
Spinning
in a Bright display
of Human Beauty

Its lights beckoning
One step forward;
Dead Darkness
Isolating me
From them
The second life lived
in the small Room
Haunting Ballads
Drag me closer
Insidious, blighted
It is forever
I'm trying to convey unsure emotion
Madeline Harper Oct 2018
As these forlorn cadences await- unfold
To compose a disbanded vow
Yielding unto harrows of gates untold
Charms death to disdainful plow

Death is plowed to a forgiving halt
While silver moonlight and whiskey dances remain
Glittering gold in this crimson vault-
Feeble souls conjure grace as graceless minds abstain

Counterfeit conceits ravish this open cellar
As the night’s last dance ceases to a disgraceful plea
The dweller’s disdain is akin to my killer
And heaven yields blood to salt the earth for thee

Come away now with your anguishing defeats
Seek not a jagged spike as the heaven’s conspire and wake
Glory and gold may turn us black as deceit
But deception admonishes the dancers in their quake

Spellbound nuances of this reality await at every turn
Mourning and fighting the finality of this grave
Orchestrated knives are rosined like honey, beckoning our blood to burn
At last, a burning reckoning comes to ravage the brave

But refrain, oh killer- host of this crimson vault
Enlist a memoir for our sins
Recalling the pieties of our gracious faults,
Enough to make this blood go thin.
This poem was abstractly written to describe a scene of death among ballroom dance and the last dancer responsible for the tragedy.
Meg Howell Mar 2018
Fragile hands,
Weathered and cracked,
Grasping onto the neck of the swan
They are tough,
Yet, all the while, their reach is gentle,
And they glide with the swan to the pond’s lively middle

Up

Up they go

   Ricocheting off the dancing beads of
      water
    
       doing the tango,
          
         the salsa,

            and, at last,

               ballroom.
Charleigh Huston Mar 2017
There upon the ballroom floor;
Lights shone down -
On the couple of the evening grand -
With a choir singing their Love,
And eyes illuminated in beauty,
With stormy hearts ablaze;
That night may forever restore.
When you visit your prom this year or your next slow dance, I hope you find love within your partner's eyes. <3
mark john junor Sep 2016
frostbitten by our heated words
in the parking lot
walked home together in our separate way
along the narrow path with
a universe of silence between
you with arms folded tightly in
your ballroom gown
me carrying our plunder
in t-shirt and jeans
we steal glances at each other
where we used to steal kisses
we miss each other already......
so my words reach out to you
you take my hand
in that small gesture we once again
find the warmth we love
our souls embrace
we drift the summer night as
one starstruck heart
we tangle into each other romantically
one tender kiss as we open
the door to our home sweet home
we are one joyful laughter
we are one smile
we are lovers in our ****** bed
once again
archwolf-angel Aug 2016
Chatters under shimmering chandeliers
The females all made up beautifully
The males dressed to a tee
Wine glasses clinking gently

Her wavy hair flowed
Framing her face nicely
Her lips with a gentle tint of pink
Her hazel eyes scanning the scene nervously

Everyone complimented her rare femininity
Often not seen on usual days
People said
Behind those casual boyish clothes
Hid such a tender beauty

She smiled thankfully
However, unable to focus
For she was waiting to see
The one she dressed up for so zealously

There he was...
Decked in a handsome suit
His tie so neat
His hair styled the way she loved it
The smile he wore on his face
Ever more charming

Her heels clicked carefully
As she walked closer to him
Her heart raced
As the music played a slow melody...


*She saw his hand, reaching out
But it wasn't for her...
It was for another...
The girl he dances with, every day
No matter what

As the dance started
The chandelier lights dimmed
Like her heart
And she left the ballroom
Never turning back
Cyrus Gold Apr 2016
Eleven Fifty.
I see a nifty reporter fixing his tie,
Sipping in a teacup, drinking Chai.
He surveys the room for that moment of magic,
Not forgetting that the nature of his story is tragic.

He tells others that the invitation was a welcome gift,
Providing him the chance to debunk a particular myth.
The castle halls were filled with chatter and laughter
Spills of wine from wine glasses were happy disasters.

Eleven Fifty-two.
Night sky projects its color downwards,
Painting the city blue.
Stars mysteriously align with illuminating glow
As the chatter dies down, readying for a show.

With midnight approaching, beautiful words begin to appear,
engraved on the castle walls;
“you are the stars that ignite in the darkness of night.”
“…to where we stood.”
“I wish it was me.”
“I wish it was me.”
Recorded history of infinite love is all that I could see.

Eleven Fifty-Four.
A certain “Morty” is devouring shrimp to my left.
Ordering forty more, he's clearly satisfying his heft.
Our eyes meet for a second, my head nods
As if it’s a secret of his that I’ve already kept.

Eleven Fifty-Six.
It’s raining, a condition for her to “be”.
“Ooh’s” and “Ah’s” in the crowd but I can’t really see.
Time has stopped as the dance floor clears,
Anxious about this myth as midnight nears.

Eleven Fifty-Seven.
It’s not a myth at all - there she is! A living angel from heaven
Gracious in presence, magnificent in beauty,
We're staring at the star of a wonderfully vivid movie.

She’s wearing a silk-woven concoction of a crimson red dress,
A mask covering her face, necklace bears a family crest.
Legend says the people will witness her choice, hence
Her index finger points with a high-pitched voice.

Deafening silence for a moment… and then…

She picks a gentleman. That lucky *******.
Envious women are criticizing her; “Husky. *****. Witch.”
The man looks honored, almost intimidated
With her by his side, he clearly appears vindicated.

He takes her hand, and presses her body with his
And stares deeply into her eyes,
But what he saw staring back
Was a tragic tale he didn’t realize.

The music brings the Midnight Princess to life
As their spirits move in unison, like husband and wife.

They dance, and in that small infinity, I'm lost in awe
Her lovely waltz on the floor moving without a flaw
Beautifully elegant art in motion
Is all that everyone saw.

Eleven Fifty-Nine.*
*This man is running out of time.
He needs to convince her to stay
Before she vanishes away.

The myth supposedly goes like this:
If rain continues to pour past midnight,
That gentleman hopeful would be futile in his fight
For her heart, blinded by her gracious and kind sight,
Not wanting to regret his actions in hindsight.

He holds her tight, their union a great show,
But he only had a minute, forty seconds ago.
The ballroom rallies in hope for this man to catch her by his glove
As he promises her tomorrow, and proclaiming his love.

The rain is heard from inside the castle corridors
The clock strikes midnight, chiming in three sets of four
And she fades, with the audience awe-struck by the gleam
Convincing us all she was naught but a dream.

We wished it were him.
We wished it were him.
Hoped he would lift the curse.
She left him feeling worse.
They looked perfect together, but
She deserves forever.

It’s an experience witnessing magic without a fault
And she sadly hadn’t been seen ever since.
I pray she returns to dance an endless waltz
With her one and only fairy tale prince.
Dedicated to a fellow poet friend.
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