June 25 by The Running Son
ʈhe sl❂w dance
It’s got this grip on me,
afflicting me, a spring-time
symphony; really, the only music
even fit for me. No minor falling chords,
no keys can dampen my needing you:
you feed old burnings
inside of me.
Used to be
was the only spring
still warming cold mornings.
Now snows, and cold winds blowing
can never shift or lift this
from us, and amid
my long rhyming
and downward spiraling, I’ve
finally found you, whew, and just
in time I think. Signatures align perfectly,
and our thoughts slow rhyme
in a perfect
minds mix, explode—recombine;
then thoughts slow rhyme, again with mine.
Candle-lit eyes reflect
the times we met,
in our age
has a tempo change;
our first dance
is our final phase,
a fencing match
of bodies slow dancing on the stage
to a strange and complex
spring-loaded social arrangement—
and I tell you
straight: there is still a chance
I may take you, here, make you mine.
Then we’ll breathe each others light
until we both die, or both go utterly blind.
In my world we move in
living harmonies, rhythms, and deep
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.