The Moonlight Danseuse

The Moonlight Danseuse

The bedroom is dark,
A swirl of violets, crimsons,
And blues of deepest midnight.

In the corner, a music box chimes,
In sadness, lamenting that which has been lost.
Its dancer twirls in an everlasting circle,
Everlasting... everlasting... everlasting...

The silk blinds bellow about in the wind,
The open window, high as the ceiling,
Agape, open for someone to come home,
For someone lost, but where? Where could that someone be?

In the center, a four poster bed,
Its drapes are royal violet, its frame beautiful oak.
Heavy blankets of blue, feather pillows of white,
White like the stars,
Lost stars.

Perfume drifts amidst the wind,
A whisper – nay, a kiss,
Of lavender, of roses,
Of innocence,
Of death.

Wooden floorboards stay silent,
In mourning that they will never creak under her toes again.
Canvases, rich in oily pastels, are shadowed, mourning.

A ray of moonlight knife's its way through the silky white curtains,
As one, curtains and moonlight, they dance as though they have danced for eternity.

Books lay on a nearby table,
Each buried by the one on top,
One is still open, pleading for attention.
It is a diary,
It's ink is slightly wet and smeared,
As though it has been crying.

A lone candle, dwindling to an inch from
Its own departure,
Graces light onto an empty chair.
Forever empty, light forever graceful until the end.

In the closet there are clothes,
The clothes of a child girl.
Dolls and shoes,
(Impossibly small shoes –
Surely, no human could fit such delicate, such petite wear?)
And dresses with bows.
One dress is missing from its hanger;
It will never hang there anymore.

It is a beautiful room,
The cotton dresses, the fine draperies,
The tomes, the furniture, the window...

All shrouded, all painted in night's suffocating hue.
The hue of Death.

Still, the dancers spin,
Twirl and step in perfect flow,
Elegance a melody of two lovers entwined...

But look,
There, in the midst of the shifting curtains and moonlight,
A shape... a form... a dancing girl...

The curtains flutter in the breeze, caressing
This new – no, this found, dweller,
The frail silhouette of a little girl returned home.

But if she is solid in this form,
The moonlight does not reveal,
Yes, for within the white folds the girl twirls, spins and steps,
But she is only as solid as the midnight air.

The girl is not there, then,
At least, not physically.
Even ghosts must find their way home,
And she has.

The perfume, the diary...
The chair, the lit candle...

She has returned.