In the heat of the night,
Caught in a gleam of light,
She dances.
Her hair swirls around her face,
Taking part of the race.
She thrives on mistaken identity,
Her shadow, no longer fallow,
A Glasgow of her serenity.
Hope is what holds her onto rope,
To cope with her life,
Ask for help in overcoming strife,
And not to be caught by the knife of time.
She dances.
Her feet are not touching the ground,
There’s a heavenly, eerily glow around.
Bound to the stars, she watches the cars race by
Moving on, racing with the issue of time,
Fast, dry, vanishing.
In the heat of the night, in beats of drums,
Caught in a gleam of light,
She dances.
© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.