The Divine Dance

They are gypsies, they dance in the forest to this day if the city will permit them. 

How I came to befriend them is a mystery only sorcerers can tell. 

Being I am a mere poet, I can only compose the dance in a dreamscape of words. 

 

The grand piano,

The sculpture,

And the dance.

These bright but saddened souls create such a composition, 

It will take years to write. 

Perhaps on my deathbed,

Perhaps even within my black coffin

I compose such a work. 

 

Strange people.

Delightful as a sad tone from a cello. 

The ancient creation of mimes in dark alley way. 

Frightful yet compelling. 

Strange fortunes,

Global foretelling me, sadness

Is a blade that punctures every love.

And how true,

This is madness.

How true, and how sad.

 

But I am lingered.

I am intrigued,

As they are reflected among the lies I tell.

But true love is innocent,

Almost even bloody

And torturous.

But that is their life,

Their love for me.

So true.

 

Divine, like the strange winds

That gather the black birds for singing.

The automatic structure of the piano,

Black, as black.

Lingering death

In it’s finest tuxedo.

Author's Note

artwork: Vladimir KoniArt Saric