Twistaz Haderach.

She’s the Twistaz Haderach,

With a shout and twist,

The inked felt tip on her pointe shoe,

Slides across the wood,

A crimson line in its wake.

A spin and prance translates,

Into the unfurled petal,

Of a blossoming rose,

The hue of the cardinal’s raiment,

As he sits mesmerised,

The selfsame coloured juice,

Of a punctured tomato,

Dripping down his static wrist.

With a twirl and a bow,

The burgeoning flower is completed,

With no further ado,

Nor a single word,

The Twistaz takes her leave,

For she is less than a goddess,

More than a marker.