The tips of the shoes lightly skimmed the floor,
Like a paintbrush decorating a blank canvas,
The body and soul conversing.
The music flooded the room,
Delicately touching the ears,
Only to be heard by the cultural.
Eyes wonder the room,
Thinking the graceful butterfly was crazy,
Moving to the music that was not even there.
But to the butterfly, the movements that she created,
The crazy thing called dance, was for her,
Dreaming on her feet.
The butterfly soared, and landed without a sound,
The movements like wind,
Gentle and peaceful.
The shoes slowly rise all the way up, to the tips of her toes.
Her imaginary stage got darker
And her music became dramatic,
As the butterfly soars around the room, rapidly, spinning, turning, leaping,
Creating more applause.
The butterfly stumbled, and fell to the floor with a thud.
The music and crowd stopped.
She was no longer a butterfly.
She was now what critics would call a failure.
She looked down at her feet where pointe shoes occupied them.
Ignoring the laughs of her failure, she slowly got up,
Pressing on the button of the music in her mind,
Listening to the imaginary music,
Refusing to give up.
She acted as if nothing happened,
As if she didn’t make a mistake.
Her toes lightly skimmed the floor,
Making the room go hushed,
Mesmerised by the fluid movements of the dancer,
A small smile graced her face,
Her emotions showing through her movements,
Sweeping everyone off their feet with awe.
She refused to give up,
She refused to become a failure,
She got back up,