Ava LaVolpe, Staff Writer

Wispy roses and golden starlight, 

Crescent floors polished and shined,

Reflected moons glisten white, 

A silver dream that has been intertwined. 


Graceful steps fill the air,

A waltzing memory being awoken once more, 

Clinking glasses and hushed voices,

Dizzying but yet divine, alone but not lorn. 


A painting paints itself, 

A story told but unsaid,

Remembering the unrecalled, 

Noticing the unnoticeable.


Wilted roses and morning sunlight, 

Red painted floors filled with dirt and grime,

A soft glow gleams into silence, 

It seems we have run out of time.


For it was all an illusion,

A waltzing memory being awoken once more.