Sometimes I feel like
the last remaining sequin
on a well-worn party dress,
hanging by a thread,
the little bead anchoring me
holding on for dear life,
for fear we'll go hurtling
through space to land,
lost forever, in that black hole
that is a crack in the floor,
the tuft of a carpet.
Bereft of our sparkle,
our jobs lost in the memories
of gay, happy girls
who danced and laughed.
We sparkled along with them
then were relegated
to the back of the closet.
Luster faded as, in the dark,
one by one, sequins and beads
broke away and, like dreams,
fell into the dust on the floor.
Still, one last sequin and its bead,
retain some sparkle, a glint that shines,
a hope of emerging from the dark
to dance, one more time
and to enjoy the smiles
of a handsome, laughing man.
then were relegated
to the back of the closet.
Luster faded as, in the dark,
one by one, sequins and beads
broke away and, like dreams,
fell into the dust on the floor.
Still, one last sequin and its bead,
retain some sparkle, a glint that shines,
a hope of emerging from the dark
to dance, one more time
and to enjoy the smiles
of a handsome, laughing man.
No comments:
Post a Comment