I wrote you a poem because you said you would read it

She is dancing;
barely there, barely aware
- inside her cremated mind.
Remembering things that never was,
forgetting things she never knew.
She is waiting.
For life.
For time.

For she is oblivious,
unaware that she is dreaming;
she clings to her dance
and refuses to let go.
But, she stumbles
- and broken by the mirrors
within her imaginary studio,
she judges her own reflection;
without knowing why.

Written by me. Photo by Ellen Wilberg.