He had this picture in his head
Of dancing at the Met.
And by seventeen he’d joined that scene
In tights and T-shirt stained with sweat.
Building stacks of broken shoes,
Every day a brand new bruise,
A life’s goal attained so fast!
But what’s a dream to do
When it’s finished coming true?
The picture of his life didn’t — couldn’t last.
Cuz the picture in your head
Never ends like you expect.
And four years in, room starts to spin,
He stayed home sick, his body wrecked.
Sure, he thought, a minor bug,
But after weeks, and still a slug,
The docs called it Epstein-Barre.
Goodbye the dreams of ballet star…
Goodbye … goodbye …
He was lost. Everything he worked for,
Gone!
All the pieces smashed asunder,
Left eighteen months to wonder
What would he do now?
What would he do now?
With his picture just a shred,
He was jobless, with no hope.
But that wasn’t him, and so on a whim
He bought a camera, just to cope.
Slow at first, but then some speed —
He knew the passion it took to feed
A skill, whether dance or art —
He knew how much time, how much heart —
He was found. Suddenly the work came
Fast!
Putting pieces in position,
Reigniting old ambition,
He was an artist once again and how!
And now —
We have a picture by our bed
Of him dancing at the Met.
Now he shoots the shows, and Broadway knows
He’s the go-to-guy, good as they get.
He taught me life may change your art,
But it can never change your heart.
The real test, he came to see:
The picture of a dream can fade…
But the point is, new pictures get made.
He made new art
With his new life with me.
