Blue Dancers by Edgar Degas

Dancers, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

What is of dancers for me to adore?
Only one with meaning is the ballet.
Did Terpsichore tamper my heart’s core,
For the love of ballet shall never stray.

On a staged wooded land as nymphs they move,
Or the whisk of a baton, butterflies.
Move with perfection or suffer reprove.
While they’re dancing, I don’t dare shut my eyes.

Look about at them, all are so petite,
At waist, makes for such an easy embrace.
Each angelic face so tender and sweet,
Touching many hearts with their moving grace.

The world of dance may just be make believe,
But lightens the heart with no time to grieve.

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