Dancing with Death

Thursday, June 19, 2014

So this is a pretty personal poem, in the sense that I wrote it about a year ago for one of my very close friends. This is the edited/modified version, as per subject discretion.

     She dances a dance with Death's hands
Weaving between his fingers, floating over his palm

     Her friends are spectators at her show
Not aware of her story
Just seeing a girl twirling and leaping gracefully across the stage

     They whisper little words of gossip
     "she practices every day for like, 5 hours or something"
     "she doesn't ever fall"

Unless you were in the front row you wouldn't know that these snippets were not compliments, no
wouldn't they love to see her stumble

                If you were sitting in the front row, you would see Death's hands



Nicking her a little bit each time

              Wherever death would touch her

Another tiny red line would appear across her elegant body

Drawing upon her skin

Death is a cruel dance partner

And yet she dances.

              She dances because it is better

She dances because it is better to see

               It is better to see those in the way back

It is better to see the scars adorning them

              To see their strings breaking

Just as hers are snapping in an anarchic harmony

She is tired but she dances.

               Those in the front row 

               We see Death

               We watch his frustration

                At this beautiful little girl

                Dancing a bittersweet chaos amidst his fingers

So close,

                But so far away.

I can hope, my darling, that he doesn't get any closer.


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