Again she sits
examining her feet.
This not-so-youthful dancer
sees each role now go
to younger girls.
And in her soul she knows,
though wise, still strong,
she can't compete.
"How many dances left?"
Can she expend enough
when pain's too great
to just dismiss,
(as we the cough or spot or chill)
"Is this the starting of
the starting of the end?"
But dare she stop?
Not only left behind to watch
the parts she did or didn't,
doomed to envy,
more she fears
she'll be consumed,
re-dancing all her dances
in her mind.
Just so I toss my journal,
glare and think
"I bet my rhythm's off!
My feet must stink!"