The Dancer
The Silence After Motion
She does not leap—
she remembers flight.
One foot in the earth’s old sorrow,
one hand hooked to the invisible moon,
her body bends like a question
the night is too afraid to answer.
Above her,
a blue veil of storm and silk
hangs like a captured ocean,
like a dream that forgot
how to fall.
She is all impulse—
muscle, breath, thunder,
a bright wound of motion
cut through purple darkness.
No stage can hold her.
No room can name her.
She is the instant before lightning,
the prayer before the scream,
the wild grammar of the body
when the soul refuses silence.
And look—
how the shadows gather
not to hide her,
but to witness.
She dances past gravity,
past memory,
past the border
between flesh and myth,
until even the night
must open its hands
and let her go.
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