He lingers in her pores Like an afternoon wave Searching for Never Land — And home was always A faint dream’hellip; He saw her one night In an empty hall Under the dim blue light And the shaded halogen Of the streets Gliding in — Flowing Like her black dress — And she was dancing’hellip; Dancing Like she would never dance again Lost in a whirlwind — Turning And Turning And Revolving Memories circling As a black tornado On an empty dance floor — Breaking’hellip; ‘Was she happy?’ Like moonbeam spinning Between the blades Of a windmill, As if she was the clay In the potter’s wheel — Spinning And spinning As formless clay’hellip; To a terra cotta figurine He imagined if she had to die By the end of the dance He imagined if the final step Was the movement of death — And he waited’hellip; But she danced. Spinning Circling Swinging As if never to cease — As if to freeze In a death By dance Yet she lingers in his pores Like an afternoon wave Searching for Never Land — Perhaps she was just a dance’hellip; No woman at all