I once had a lover who was a dancer.
so long ago past that it’s now barely true
I once said I would one day gavotte for her
about a wood pile’s pirouette and forever make the ‘Grand jeté too
but I made a single stipulation to her fancy footwork’s game
that I must be a master of my own false step
where those hoofs fell and where they did not
a simple matter of my own heart’s rep
and in turn it did come from this own fatal flop
the wood pile’s flames raising into uncommon highs
that a cold blaze neither could soon find a stop
that inevitable exhaustion of our own false thighs
from its growing heat did out ashes spew
bearing no fruit for us as our phoenix flew
lost in mortal flame did we so soon disdain
this weakened bond between our natal two
and we went our ways through life’s endless plays
forgetting vows and vices our to own once great plans
where that Eden stood was now left naught but newly rotted wood
the remnants remaining to the meddle of some other’s hands
so these feet grew old and so much less the bold
a hobbled life misspent in incremental not big jumps
of stale static plans safe of any new indenture to fewer promised lands
a shored up existentialism’s hailed halt before its smallest humps
