I want to believe in a world
Where ashes do not go back to ashes,
Where dust will not go back to dust,
Or into the bones
Of oblivion.

I want to believe in a world
Where hats would drop off
When the artist speaks,
Or sows together pieces
Of melancholy and precision.

Yes, I want to believe in this perfect world
Where a thought can be bought
For more than a penny,
But for a whole
Golden mine.

This world is both yours and mine,
So please believe in it,
So we can stop beating around the bush
When it comes to you and me
And art.

While all the ***** and dolls spent holy holidays
Whitening their teeth on magnesium

While others whispered secrets into hollow trees
And almost cried in Asia and kitchens

While we're banging at the wall of the universe
Like particles hitting the side of the flask

While awake at 1am, 2am and tomorrow
Seeing life in the back of the eye in the mirror

While lost in the arteries of a machine
While lost in the arteries of a machine

Lean your head
On my
Bare
Hip
And taste
Sweet,
Pure
Freedom.

Let these
empty
sheets
Cover this
naked
Body
Of mine
With relief.

Let my ankle
Feel
The pain
Of your
Passionate
Kiss,
As we both know
It is our last.

Close your eyes,
Love,
As you did mine
Once,
So you won't see
My shadowed
Steps
Walking away.

Take your farewell
And cover it
With clothing,
But it will still be
Too much
For our
One hour
Love story.

Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.

A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.

Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.

All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.

Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.

Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck

When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...

So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.

Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.

Night is just night,
without it being told that
it should be dark
and sunless.

It is what it is,
by its own definition.
It does not need stars to shine
In order to make darkness meaningful.

Still, the stars shine.
They do what they do
Without self-acknowledgement,
They simply do.

Be.
Like night and stars
And meaningfulness
And Self-acknowledgement.