Tumbling, Twisting, twirling she dances with all her might,
She dances in the golden morning and in the blackest night.
Her dress, a gentle flame that does not burn
That grows and glows with every turn.
The fabric blooms a magnificent sunset,
Bright reds and yellows that could n’ver be met
With excellency even close to her own
And in such beauty she stood alone.
She has nothing to say, she has no voice
But no words would come if she had a choice.
Her feet weave a story her lips could n’ver tell,
Soft and pattering feet that put you in a spell.
She sways in the wind, she floats in the air
Lower she goes but she doesn’t care.
As she brushes the ground it cuts like a blade.
She only just realized the mistake she had made.
For she is a dancer, she needs her breeze
Without it dancing comes with no ease.
But it was too late, she feel with a thud,
The poor little dancer was stuck in the mud.
Shivering shivering is the girl.
No more life, she cannot twirl.
No yellow, orange, or red.
The dancer might as well be dead.
The girl is stuck, she’s on the ground,
The weight on her is increasing pound by pound.
Crashing, crying, cringing, she must finally take her leave,
Brown and wrinkled, she takes her last breathe with a heave