Her fingers were nimble,
Thin and calloused.
Sleek yet rough, they moved angrily,
Attempting to swiftly move the needle.
Night after night she sat in the shadows
Her figure but a slender silhouette,
Once again repairing her slippers.

But in the light of day she was a swan
Gracefully learning to fly.
Her face was soft
But her heart was tight,
Holding back tears.
She was being drained.
People cried:
“What a marvelous dancer!”
Assuming her emotional eyes were an act.

Her passion was not her art,
But to be significant was her desire
Alas, through the diligent practice of her discipline,
Her identity had indeed been lost.
She was not longer an imaginative mind,
A human in her own right,
Rather a body trained to inspire awe.
She was the dance.