A Painting Ballerina
I am a story teller, a silent artist
Arms outstretched, a Ballerina
I weave such magic through my steps
Dancing peaks and stormy swirls
~
I tell my story without any words
Dazzling and colourful pirouettes
Balancing on point with such grace
I weave my story across the stage
~
I choose my music to fill the air
A place all emotion fits as one
Blotches of sadness tinge with anger
To finish with hope; an elegant pose
~
Dainty steps on tippy toes edge
Show the raw unfaded truth
Of all the feelings I can paint
From the song inside my heart.
About the Creator
VJHD
The subsistence of our lives will live on in our words, forever encapsulating our feelings.
Words are the centre point of our existence. If we never write anything down, did we ever really exist at all?
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
The Spring
The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.