The Dancer
Dancing, swirling, twirling, mastering the art of indifference.
The audience is no one.
It is an entity of unknown faces.
The stage is a gray world,
Devoid of things of substance.
There is only the dancer,
Dancing, swirling, twirling, mastering the art of loneliness.
The lights are dim.
They are washing out the colors around.
The world is a gray stage,
Devoid of things of substance.
There is only the dancer,
Dancing, swirling, twirling, mastering the art of shadow.
Mastering the art of merely existing.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Prophecies
PoetryRain falls in crosshatch across the lamp lit sky, splattering the asphalt ground with splashes of reflected light. I look at the sketchbook in my hand and trace the penciled rain and smudged glow. It was shit. I let to book fly onto the muddy grass...
