Dance for Me

A turbid small puddle of whatever mirrors the dim lights of centuries ago – no, no perhaps just a block or two away, the lights and no time sways.

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A turbid small puddle of whatever mirrors the dim lights of centuries ago – no, no perhaps just a block or two away,  the lights and no time sways.

But time is more distant than the miles we count.

Leave be the mud of place and cleanse you with the ideas of where your mind has taken you.

I’m left here to contemplate the depthlessness of this place because centuries from now, I’ll read about it.

I hear you dance about me upon the grimy cobblestones.  Who do you hold in your arms and how does she keep the hem of her dress pristine?

I scribble away upon this wooden box, a quill and an endless supply of ink.

I begged for the writing box on a birthday so many years ago, and I’ve followed you about sketching out your life of beauty and gentle love.

How is it you haunt me?

How is it that I cannot push you away despite the many distractions I beg for each day.

I want nothing, nothing from you and yet if I could, I would ask you to stay.

Dance for me.

Dance for me.

Take her slender body in your arms and gently lead to music that I can only imagine, in a room of marble and admiration. In the end, my envy and depravity will exhaust my efforts and I will sell my foolscap upon the corners.

A word picture of you in the lush white of winter immortalizing, in physical beauty, the lies of the age.

 

He Danced Her

He stopped talking

She could not set light to her room, nor could she fall high enough to make much sense of that solid sensation of moving not at all.

Each limb lead and the sound of echoes making no movement upon the walls and no sense – just vibrations that touched nothing.

So she enameled the floor ebony and coated the walls black. Upon her bed, she encased it with Egyptian cotton dark as the night and flung across the canopy blackest velvet curtains.

Then invited him in.

Desire is a blindness, this he knew and despite the pallor of her skin, the blackness of her room he entered in, prepared for nothing.

He could not speak to her, he did not know how. He could not plead with her she could not comprehend sincerity.

So he stretched out his hands and embroidered the edges of the black velvet curtains with pearls of milky white and cast upon her ebony pillows the silver moonlight.

Upon the floor, he danced and swayed over the darkness a midnight blue in soft undulating waves and placed upon that stream small pinpricks of shining stars.

She gasped in protest as he pushed aside the curtains and raised his hands as a master musician. The stars, moon, and galaxies from afar rose up and sprang into heavenly instrumental song.

He turned to her exhausted, awaiting his fate.

She stood pale and small before the darkness of all light, naked and exposed from gloom of tomb to the vast universe just outside her room.

He placed a hand gently on her waist, held her hand and slowly waltzed about the ebony gates and out into the clear floor of eternity