I stand in repose.
This is the only time
when I'm really at ease,
and the silver lining
on my slippers
match those on the clouds.
And when he's sketching me.
In fourth position
though my neck aches,
I am proud.
and I know he knows,
I don't glitter, but I'm gold.
He says I'll be a star." Just wait and see Marie".
Slowly I watch
as his sketch comes alive.
And there I stand,
a miniature.
Of wax.
I am portrayed, the little dancer.
I watch as my miniature sculpture
he made of me
is displayed
in a box.
keeping me safe.
From the sticks and stones that may break my bones.
And what do they say? They say that words will never hurt me.
But they do.
The words carelessy tossed at my glass box
could be enough to break it into a million pieces.
I only hope that one of those awful critics,
will be hit by shrapnel.
But she is so real.
She could walk out of that box
and walk away from those horrible words.
If only she was beautiful
What does that say about me?
What does that say about him?
Ah... but 250 years later I am a star. I am the Little Dancer. I have made him, Edgar Degas, famous.
@>-^---