There are questions she wonít answer-
There are ones, she will not ask.
She stands, as a lone dancer-
Her tears hidden Ďneath her mask.
Movementís graceful, body brilliant,
Eyes are drawn to such a sight.
Tears held in, with such resilience-
Yet alone she screams at night.
Feel the pressure, feel the pain,
Itís the drug in which she uses.
Feel the beauty from her strain,
Itís the eloquence she chooses.
Itís a grand-pliť of choices;
Itís the light that floods the stage,
The encouragements of voices,
Itís her deep secreted rage.
In an arabesque she poses,
The curtain lowers to the floor.
The crowd is throwing roses,
Applauding to see more .
She has no more left to offer-
No tendues, no pirouettes;
For her doctor says sheís dying-
Yet alive, sheís not felt yet.
Afraid to face her reality,
She ignored the words he said;
Ovarian cancer, in stage three-
She knows sheíll soon be dead.
She gets weaker by the day,
Ignored for almost a year-
All she ever did was pray,
But inside she shudders in fear.
She lies inside the hospice room-
Her beautiful body withered away,
Her family senses impending doom,
Beside her bed her loved ones stay.
Her young life, this disease has stole;
It stripped her of her poise.
Softly dances away her soul-
To the music that wonít make a noise.