Ghost on the dance floor
When it’s time, let it die.
![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/60f2e0541af52c001e798381.jpg)
Like a ghost on the dance floor,
moving in haunting grace,
flourishing in filigree
and fainting between twirls.
She lets herself hang onto every last step until it’s exhausted it’s poetry.
Every romantic movement of the muscles, memorized and mimicked in a melancholy memoir depicting the
murder of love.
The physical death of a rose and the emotions it released in its final moments, the frangrance of death, still as sweet as summer vibrance, but not long for this world.
I think she understands this,
so when the dance dies,
she lets it Rest In Peace.
About the Creator
W. J. Bradford III
my name is William Bradford III
I write poetry and create content surround each subject.
Ig:thesadder_chapter
Fb:thesadderchapter
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