I think I wrote this when I was a much younger man after visiting “one of those” places. I was struck by the beauty, but also the sadness of the dancers and the world they must inhabit.
The Dancer
Through pale blue light she moves
Like moonbeams
Acrobatic silver streaming starlight
Hiding from the fear that stalks the night
She is a slave to the rhythm of a bass drum
Over scattered stage she drifts
Like snowflakes
Guided by the pull of a gilded hand
The gravity of things that she can understand
She is a slave to the rhythm of a bass drum
Through faces blurred she flies
Like a windstorm
Artificial arching passion to pass the time
Memories of those nights when it was genuine
She is a slave to the rhythm of a bass drum