Isabelle

Isabelle, in her pale, pink dress, still sways to unheard music.

Only the ghost light remains in the empty theatre,

and she sways in it’s glow like it was a mirror ball.

 

Last moment of joy, before she was taken, the perfect moment,

belle of the ball, and the princess of the evening, still swaying,

still happy, remnant spirit.

 

The theatre is dark but for the ghost light, but she’ll dance until

the morning comes, and the world reawakens, and all spirits

go quietly underground.

 

Unheard music, romantic and tender, fills her in this last moment,

and she dances, glow as pink as a spring petal, glamourous still,

until morning comes, and she goes quietly underground.