• Every night they close the box,
    The box of our trapped ballerina.
    And every night she stays there,
    In the pose of The Dying Swan.

    She cannot blink,
    She cannot sleep.
    As her painted on face forbids her to.
    So there she lies so listlessly,
    All she can do is think.

    Think of how she wants to cry,
    To yell, to grimace.
    She wants to move her painted face,
    From a smile to a trembling pout.
    She wants to cry 'til her tears run out.

    Her days are spent entertaining,
    Her nights are spent locked up.
    She spends her life as a puppet,
    Controlled by the keepers of her box.

    In the pose of The Dying Swan,
    She ponders her lifes end.
    "When my smile fades,
    and paint chips, what will become of me?"
    "Will I be forgotten?
    Or repaired?"
    "Will my life be spent as a puppet?
    A prisoner in my own box..?"