The face in the image is cracked with age,
faded from dancing on a crowded stage.
The spinning and bowing has done her no good,
she could rest for awhile if she only could.
The eyes are upon her ragged feet,
her ears cannot shake the echoing beat.
The escape from her fake hell would be eternally gladdening,
yet on she dances, and keeps on maddening.
The back door, her circumvention, is always open,
but she watches and waits as her scars blacken.
Death takes her on as they stand eye to eye,
and what is the point if we never die.
So dance on, oh proud one,
your bones soon will crack.
I will not be there,
to be what you lack.
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