Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free.” ― Rumi
Dance when the only sound is sigh
-lence, when the violence in the streets
has us bleating for peace. When the or
-igin of our skin is unknown, and we’re
origami’d into something other than what
we’re meant to be.
Dance even though your feet are aching
and time and space and continuum are
all taking their tolls. Dance when the rolls
of fat flap and the trombones trap the sound
in vociferous horns. Dance when you’ve sworn
you can move no more.
Dance when you’re broken. Open the wound
and slide about barefoot in its crimson flow.
Welcome the scar. Dance when the stars bid
you goodnight and when you’re all out of fight
and in that moment when you’re sucking life
through that camel’s last damn straw.
Dance off into the sunset, naked or clad in rain,
glad for the insane beat of your heart’s own
violet drums. Dance until the saltiest tears
come and tomorrow is uncertain and the
ebony curtain of the sky threatens to close
its glorious stage.
Give rage a chance, a page, a last glance on
its way out of your veins as you bid it cha-cha
-ciao. Don’t ask how, or follow those fake
footsteps on the floor. Just dance. Shed your
shivered armor and invent a partner or go it alone.
Dance your way home.
Show your feet how to laugh on their own, even
when your face must close. Shake your threaded
limbs and stretch them to the sun. Dance for the
One who made you and displayed you and gave
you breath and depth and song. Know He’s been
watching, waiting all along.
Written for OctPoWriMo, day 17.