1 October 2017

Middle-crossed symphony
agéd watcher, unmusic
undanced though
the talk abounds.

Absent smiling face, even if
he were here
it wouldn’t be grateful fate.

We danced to music this once;
he danced, and my followed eyes,
feet down below shackled to
the mind.

We never danced again,
nor he and me and then alone just me.
In front of mirrors closeted my feet
socked create minimal beat. Song, music
unlike this, repeat and arms flair, doing
justice to my two lame feet.

She in my preferred place.
No musician am I, thus redundant, replaced.
She stares not at my chosen lover’s face
and I wonder why she’s taken my place.

Her fingers do move, but then so do this hand’s
five. Pen is my fiddle, but the bitch
still took my place.

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