The dance of the ballerina poppies…

yellow patterned curtains,

shutting out the light,

crouched I sit behind the glass,

in pinkened – lace disguise…..

with nursery rhymed intentions,

placed inside the lies,

which preached of poised perfection,

and taught the colour of the sky

pristine, gleaming etchings,

concealing plastered walls,

of ballerina fairy tales,

whose clothes entrap their forms

red stained velvet shoes,

dampened on the floor,

under sheltered window panes,

where nymphs can play no more.

Shattered identities of motherhood,

as porcelain faces lay in mourning,

for innocence once locked behind pale eyes,

and dreams kept in secret charms

dirtied, flowering poppies,

overtaking the white plush rug,

dragging with them the ballerinas,

whose lies no longer conceal the wall.