His danse deadened the cricket’s song A screech swallowed by generic boughs that glittered with future festivity This paned window yawns onto a blank expanse outlining one yellow square after midnight
He dared to danse with his hat on That hat doesn’t fit me, so it hangs upon a barren tree
She invited me to come, to move my feet with a million others through manicured treescapes framing lofty towers He danses with mock abandon it is better to lead than follow during spring folly
I shall not visit this April Not until I find a real hat.
I wrote this poem last night in a midnight fit on my other blog. I wasn’t going to cross-post, but write a new poem for here, one that came to mind while biking to work this morning… alas, it is gone. Hopefully, it shall return in some future midnight fit for it was unintentionally timely. It was an angry poem about those high rollers who would rather run me over than save me if my broken body was in their way on their way to the 33rd floor to manage a bit more money. Homelessness misunderstood; seen as a wasteland to society. Who envies who, I ask.. perhaps it is the driven whose fortune has cut them to the knees while removing their heart; and they know they gambled away their own humanity in the process. ~
kateshrewsday
/ 2012/09/22Just captivated by the spelling of ‘danse’… I could fall in love with a word like that. Let’s wrest it single handedly from the French….