Goddess of the floor.
Terpsichore, goddess of dance, resembled with-in.
She hesitates there in the doorway,
Scopes around the room.
Dense smoke and exhilarating lights,
Unfastened energy,
Pulsing beats,
Accelerating, unrecognizable vocals.
Sweaty wet, uniquely punky and outrageously appearing bodies,
Bodies of youth.
She strides through the rage to the middle.
Kicking off her restricting shoes,
Closing her glittery decked lashes.
Moving, gently swaying at first.
Glow sticks in hand,
Like records on turntables.
She begins to move her arms where the music takes them.
She evolves,
Transforming into something distant.
Her heart begins to pound.
Speakers blare sounds that fade into the surroundings.
Young couple groove slowly and sensually,
Next to a guy who's wildly spinning and turning.
Sweat oozes down both flushed faces.
A heated wave floods over the entirety of the dance floor.
And everyone whether they are present for show,
Or there to see where it directs them,
They sense the energy.
Thrashing,
Chilling,
Energy.
Breathing takes effort.
Room starts to spin, bleeding colors and people together.
He spots her.
Watches her from a platform.
She is unaware,
Totally at use with where she is.
Nothing else matters except for the feeling,
The moment,
The time.
She is the only.
She is the goddess of floor.