Dance

A sestina I made for a creative writing class

Dance           

Yet as china doll, a face so hypocritical

She dances with such talent

But every move she makes is nigh but archaic

A beautiful vessel filled of slime

She moves carefully every step so determined

As she upholds the quickened pace

 

 The effort of setting the pace

Masses tell, yell at her to dance ever such hypocrites

She sets her mind on the task, determined

Deadly sharp, upstaging any talent.

The dance floor left a trail of slime

Yellowed pictures in newspapers valued archaic.

 

Lost art, in a way, categorized archaic

About the floor, she was to pace

Whittling hey way through the world’s slime

They stare enthralled, persons, hypocrites

Is it existing or truly a non-existent talent?

The judgment is to be determined

 

It was not the music they determined

Slow, solemn, sad yet hopelessly archaic

Was it possibly her talent?

 Or it may have been her pace

In the end would they stand and yell encore, oh people, Hypocrites

Not caring to look into their own character’s slime.

 

A vile of mucus, of slime

What was the cure, the drug is yet to be determined

One of poison, one of life, both hypocritical

Is it the life behind the archaic?

The audience’s one heart beat quickens its pace

Is killing and deception a talent?

 

Such grace, such poise, such talent

Feet dancing from heaven in a world of slime

The puppeteer watches calculating every pace

It is by him the song is determined

He binds her with strings to the ways of the archaic

It is he that drills her, makes her hypocritical

 

It is not by her that her talent is determined

She is a vessel tied into an archaic world covered in slime

It is not her that sets the pace to a tune ever so hypocritical.