A Waltz

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Written 2009. I was listening to Paper Planes by MIA and I imagined this.

Submitted: July 09, 2009

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Submitted: July 09, 2009

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A Waltz

Terry

 

He makes my heart beat slowly

He makes my heart beat slowly

 
We become a blur of incredible speed

The ground is barely able to compete

The air parts like a curtain

Dirt explodes, grass races under our feet.

 
We are a twirling dirge of death

The plants and animals hold their breath

As we try to best each other

The earth around us is rent asunder.

 
As I move, follow, parry

He matches me, will not let me tarry

If I tried to slow my pace

It would be the end of our little race

 
The strands of my hair are made of fire

The breath on my lips is made of ice

His sweat, my blood are all around

I can’t help but think: how nice

How nice to think that someone like this

I’m lucky

That someone like him even exists
 
He is the hand that draws my picture

He is the lips that speak my verses

Alone; my speed is but conjecture

My strength is just hot air and curses

 
Now I reach into my depths

And I try my best to find the bottom

As we dance, and clash, and kiss

I hope he’s deeper, and can’t find his.

 


© Copyright 2018 Terry. All rights reserved.

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