Nightingale

Her footwork, complimentary,
Her élan, admirable,
Her poise, aimable,
Truly she was the master.

My scruntiny had been more than appeased,
For her grace had shrouded me,
Into the trap of animalistic lust,
Into the shame of silence.

The music of the ball,
Usually dignified and inspirational,
Suddenly became blaring and superfluous,
My focus was on her.

She outshone the lamps,
The impending dawn,
The motives of her immediate company,
And enlightened us all.

Then of course, she opened her mouth,
With the deference of a nightingale,
She produced notes of elegance,
To an audience of tears.