The Ice Dancer (March Contest)


A dancer on thin ice,

she spins and she swirls.

A beauty to behold,

red lips and gold curls.


Around the pond she dances,

she floats like a feather.

Around the blizzard rages,

such inclement weather.


Lighter than a snowflake,

more graceful than the breeze.

She dances with death,

she waltzes,

tries not to freeze.


The wind sings the melody,

her skates keep the beat,

and winter too hums along;

they play their cold lonely song.


Yet on she twirls and on she leaps.

If she were to perish,

who would be there to weep?

Not one in this desolate world seemed to care

about our lovely dancer,

a maiden so fair.


A dancer never stops gliding,

a storm never stops crying.

The snow is always falling,

the cold is always calling.


Now old man winter comes to collect his dues.

He’s a coldhearted bastard,

this is old news.


As the dancer prepared for her final number,

out peeked the sun,

awakened from an icy slumber.

Illuminating the wasteland,

painting on a canvas of white.

Spring emerged once more,

an end to the frozen strife.


As the sun kissed her brow

a once broken heart was mended.

The dancer smiled and danced again,

a dance that never ended.

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