A dance qualified by fools, confirmed by scientific, intelligent creatures, by the majority sometimes, or by ‘common sense’. Common of the blinded, babbling, groping creature. Acclaimed by all except the silent fool, whose mantra holds only the words ‘ I know nothing,’ they dance with each other.
Yet they dance, the dancers dance.
Dance you on sweet children, distinguished dancers of a thickened heavy earth. Dance you on, though you die upon the morow, your dying from the day that held your birth. Bounce upon the strings that pull you here and too and sometimes slip you fro. For the dance you dance, it is not yours, despite the pomp and charade of you who thinks they know. The movement is not true, without the strings you cannot do, and so the illusion it simply grows and grows and grows.
My dream is the dream of life
Found in death, freed by death
A sorrowful thing am I.
I sit upon the tree alone, it’s branches tremble not, for it is I who shivers
My shaking wakes the earth, no other birds will sit with me, the onlooker, the gazer of things.
My song the song of my forefathers, breathes life, calls death, a waiting thing am I
Alone, so very alone.
Yet to my silent tune the clouds they dance, they cry, they move.
To my silent dance we hold each other and smile and weep for a lost tomorrow
Somewhere within the space between the stars, held within the moment is my place.
A perfect place, a quiet place, where I belong
where I am real ∞