Songs of solitary
confinement
create a harmony in
suffocation of sense to
distract with or from the physical.
Heart says "Go!" but
head hesitates and a
dirty dance of delusive balance begins.
"This never ends well,"
the body chimes in with
muscle memory of the
meaning of life.
A corpus-chorus-line.
Feeling a bit like a puppet and
never the master,
asphyxiate with strings to
escape the proliferated penitiential practice.
Prolific writer, setting bombs, talks of body, never of arms.
Waiting line wash out weakens willingness to withstand an abbreviated wisdom. Shy particles of sound fall from your lips like snowflakes each perfect and unparalleled. But they fall with such weight and evaporate in our heat instantly, leaving me three seasons hence in significant silence.
Do leaves not fall as such leaving underfoot a symphony of percussive perfection, or the soft swoosh of the seeds that dance and twirl in the air? Oh! That you were able to perennially perform for me the delicacies of acknowledgable adulation instead of the absence administered.
Wrestling to clear myself of sticky cobweb austerity and surface to squirm in my stance so sequestered. Shine solemnity within my swept up memory and release me from propriety. Dance foresight, lead me to leap from ledges, at risk of the fabled fall.
