From a distance,

The dancer is beautiful:

Smooth skin, pale like a porcelain doll

Full lips, red as blood freshly bled on a battlefield

Long and dark and wavy hair, like a wave of shadows falling from her head down her back

And delicate, long limbs, perfect for dancing.

But he sees her for what she really is,

He can see the shadows bruising the bleached skin under her eyes and

The blood where the blood-red lips have been cut

And the tangles in the raven black hair, and

The obvious fact that all in the crowd seemed to be

Oblivious to.

They sighed and swayed as she danced across the stage,

Charmed and entranced by the dance.

But then he began to see through the

Swift movements and elegant sweeps.

He saw the strings above her fingers and

He saw the deity tugging on them and

He saw the jerks in her movements and

He saw how she had become a marionette and

He saw how she was no longer in control of herself, her life, her being and

He saw her and

He saw and

He saw and

He saw right through

The Dance.

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