Poetry

Creative Love

The cracked mirror was all she saw from the corner of her eye. It drew her attention from her dance but yet she did not stop moving and swaying swiftly her hips. She moved closer to the mirror looking at it with curiosity. Her fingers moving slowly down the sides of the mirror her index finger beginning to bleed from the frayed corner of the body length mirror. Her blood running slowly down the glass, tainting it but yet releasing it all at once. 

She moved around the mirror to the back bending her head to see her hair pulling towards the floor and  fitting the mirror from one side to the other. She gave a smile as her face turned a dark shade of red, blue veins showing on her temples.

In a quick flick she pulled her body back and her hair volumised which now surrounded her face and shoulders. She put the mirror against the back wall of the room and she closed her eyes, twirling to the other end of the room in perfect un-flawed circles in a line that stayed straight, like an arrow pulled back and shot by a master archer.

Her body in perfect symmetry she lifted her left leg and held it by her left arm for a few seconds before letting it go, all the while her eyes closed and her senses high tended by her wanting and love of dance and persision.

As she let her leg go she opened her eyes to see the room now red, she the dancing centrepiece, the only occupant. She closed her eyes again and went into first position, then, second and third, then fourth before pirouetting 360 degrees twice without  a misstep or wobble. 

She bent towards the floor, the left leg out straight against the floor. Her right bent in an n shape and moving slowly out and down to the floor until she was in splits to the front.

She slowly rose and twisted to the floor as her eyes opened and her soul soared, her face smiling bright and truthfully as her passion laid before her was there for her, she had taken it, learned to appreciate it, bring it together with practise, precision, patience and a love for her art. She looked to her other passion beside her on the wooden bench and touched the instrument. “Tomorrow my love, tomorrow my passion of music.” 

She kissed the instrument and turned, moving in the manner of a catwalk model to the door opening it and leaving her secret passions only for her to see, feel and love.  As she left the mirror, its eyes open wide saw all in the room but stayed silent and still. The blood now dripping to the floor below, and on the handle of the door visible to all. 

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