Black, Battered, Ballet shoes

Black, battered, ballet Shoes

Engrained with rain and practicality.

Yet bafflingly beauteous with untold Reason

Of why, in such a puddle-strew season,

One should choose

Such shoes.

Such, low, flat shoes.

With soles but a centimetre of saving height

And sides that kiss the ground between each flight

Of hurried footsteps;

Chattering,

Shivering,

Off to lessons in winter’s chill.

 

The Reason I know...

But, alas, I am unwilling to digress,

For the reason itself is mere silliness,

As if an inch, or two,

Of difference in stature

Could weaken feeling

  -  if it were true.

And therein lies my doubt.  

 

For this assurance may be well and true,

If there is no other comment ‘sides me and you,

But Others see,

Others notice,

And we are no longer alone with confidence

In our own rule book, that makes more sense

Than translating others to make them fit

To our lives.

Its impossible.

The rhythm does not work.

And yet we strive to make it so,

So that we do not stand out alone

From the crowd. For on your own

Is a scary place to be.

 

So...

Black, battered, ballet shoes;

Uncomfortable.

But safe.

Reviews

[Jasmine]

for some bizarre reason, this reminds me of the darks, wet nights of rehearsing for Jekyll and hyde, running frantically between the hall and supper, and obtaining damp cold feet in the process! Us silly, giggly teenage actresses! it has a nostalgic feel for me. I love it.
So...
Black, battered ballet shoes;
Uncomfortable.
But Safe.