Around they spin.
Faster and faster they dance.
Wondering who will win
this game of chance.
Five people upon the hill
grasp hands and swiftly turn.
Not a single one stops until
two hands begin to break.
The circle comes apart.
Not one has won the game.
And now the dancers must part
with their heads bowed low in shame.
Matisse, Henri. Dance. 1910. Oil on canvas. Museum of Modern Art. New York City.
I enjoy how your poem rhymes, it makes the whole thing flow nicely. I also thought your interpretation of the painting was interesting making it a game rather than a dance or some sort of ritual.
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