The Dance They Used To Do
Her precious gowns hang, forgotten...
The silk satin has lost it's sheen
the taffeta no longer taut.
Heels worn out after being danced on.
She has nothing left to flaunt.
The lustre of the full moon has turned dreary
and the sweet tea in the tarnished pot
she stirs with a silver spoon,
...now is not.
The crystal chandeliers have lost their glow.
Wooden floorboards squeaky and unpolished.
Useless, she has nowhere to go.
Door handles of brass, lustreless
The door knocker
The hum drum of another monotonous day
sluggish slippers and a yellowed negligè.
She searches for that something that reminds her of him
and of the fun they used to have
of the dance they used to do
while the chandeliers still gleamed
when this meaningless villa
... Was their home.
Written by Anna Di Muro