Some Art

And do, she danced. On a dust carpeted hardwood floor. the prints remain.


STOP!


The prints remain... sounds good; to return to it, as a refrain.



WAIT!


But just then. The twirls, and swirls, and hearts all around, that lay silently on the dust ridden floor, beg to forever be acknowledged. And so, they are.


LISTEN!


Those cries are silenced. Not only of the proof, still etched on the floor, but her tears as well. For her dance twas not happy. Nor would be her life.


MOVE ON!

She still stands in the hall way. Marveling at what she has done. For she has, ruined the peace that stood on the floor. There is, nor ever will there be: a return.


CONTEMPLATE!

The wor(l)dless meaning held here in; the long forgotten ballroom, and the hall the leads to reality. All this stemming from markings of useless dust.

REALIZE!

Under neath the dress of compilation dust, lies the truth of the floor. The interlocking pieces of coded years. The stretches of monsoon to drought collected into meaningless shapes.


REMEMBER!

The floor is not the dust it collects. Nor is it the markings of past dances or tears. It tis that of which it is made of. Meaningless notches of storms (or the lack there of) long forgotten.

REMOVE!

So she in now collected and spent. Her mind blank as the day she was earthed. She came to buy something. Maybe it was just her self... or was it just the dust?