Silver Dream
I watch her reflection
in the silvery mirror
as she tries to pass.
She looks long and hard,
not at all like the little girl
she pretends and wishes
that she once was.
And she twirls, brightly
slightly, lightly,
upon the ball of one foot;
a ballerina in her mind,
like the porcelain one,
cracked, motionless,
up on the dusty shelf.
Both are frozen in place;
it, by form and function
her, by societal norms.
Neither will go dancing
in the bright light of day,
by the light of the dream.
So she scrubs her face raw
with her hair and her tears;
removing all traces, erases
the palette, the illusion,
and pretends to be normal,
living within the sterile walls
of an ordinary life.
~r.
All rights reserved,
© Aug, 2007 R. Braley
(astralshepherd)
Adding your comment:
*heart* 
