“A private dance? Surely not!” Gun Roswell

The Dancer

Dressed in bright red, with shining shoes to match
The music loud, the rhythm up beat, onto the dance floor, she’ll latch
The the sound waves catching her body, tapping her toes
She is in the zone now, nothing, down her ever slows

Dancing, prancing, even singing, sometimes, the audiences romancing
She is the star of her own show, fully emerged in her own flow
Living in her own little world, where only her voice can be heard
And then, the music stops, the dancer, in her steps flop
Looking around, the empty floor only her surrounds
Settling back, into reality, but only until, she hears the music, and then, she is back in her fantasy