Still The Dancer Plays

He won’t tell

Of whispers hidden in smoke,

His cloak, a barrier in white,

White as in the nothingness,

The falsities of truth.

His pleasure-giving,

Both hands out-stretched,

Whilst standing with the light,

He’s shown the universe supreme,

In reams of gold and silver light-

Ribbons, moulded girls to women

Together, the knife tightening

Around their lives.

The dancer strong,

Miraculous healer to life,

Drawing them to their knees.

The begging is in common time,

Sung strands of wanton joy,

From his eyes he pulled

Remarks of desires and love,

Whilst, to his lips,

He held a flute,

Tucked it behind his back

When they asked to look,

They asked to see his music;

Instrumental for others,

God-like with many hands,

Which dabbled from women

To women, omnipresent,

Gowns and drinking, always dancing,

A serenade and a promenade;

He won’t touch, and he won’t

Hold on, his lightning pushing

Onwards, from place to place.

Like teleportation, his tricks

Wreck havoc with minds,

Repair man, hearts in his bag,

Yet, is no doctor,

Merely in his playing mask;

Can conjure those thousand excuses,

Stars he placed up in the sky,

A faux canvas of magic gold,

Brighter than richest scents,

Miraculous with chimes

And rhymes a-more,

His own fallow, his own path

Written in with hand-swishes,

Whilst in that crystal ball

Are seen the trapped tears

Of those he’s captured

With their pooled eyes ablaze.

Illusive majesty, where modesty

Becomes the shapes in the air;

Pulling threads from out those

Silken words, his lies

Weave nothing more;

But when the dancer screams,

His own eyes silent,

He yells out fire, ice

Solidifying on his tongue,

Magician to monster,

Where the conjurer is a Frankenstein

Friend, creator pinnacled pain;

Inside his soul, beauty remains,

Still the dancer plays with others’.

Hate from external existence,

Nurturing fools

With trickery poison,

Slipping from the pipe,

That imaginary piece of love.

The End

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