The Dance

they meet in the ballroom
he nods a bow
as she curtseys to the floor
her arms are weak
he picks them up
and places one on his shoulder
the other in his hand
like attaching the strings of a puppet
he steps back
she follows
hand in the air he twirls her
with a malicious grin
her head is spinning
like and unbalanced top
yet she stays strong
enough

grace through the pain
because its all bout hope
dancing her last
she firmly holds the rose in her teeth
the rose white and sickly
the neck that once stood bright
now hangs limp in her clenched jaw
silent tears of all those who once loved her
fall onto the hard wood
but she does not slip
her face contorted
with a mixture of chaos and peace
she never looks down
he bends and spins her at his will
he is the ventriloquist giving his greatest performance
but its just a routine

her veined hand sweeps the air
and he catches it with precision
his black cloak clashes wonderfully terribly
with his chalky pallor
she flows in loose fitting silk
once extravagant her dress now torn and stained
it delicately cascades to the floor
his final act
a devilish gleam in his black eyes
his hands ensnare her waist
she looks away
her arms hang feeble in front of her
with a sickening triumphant laugh
he lifts her body above his head
her back arched
her head back
blearily gazing upward
he does not bring her back down
she continues
              up
      up
up
as the world fades to black