Loading...

Ballet Dancers In Final Flight

The lights seem to cry,
Like ballets dancers in their final flight,
At least in my vision,
I gaze upon them,
Not knowing which side is right,
 
The lamp posts have legs,
That seem to tinkle so lightly,
Upon the ledge of my fleeting reality,
Where they’re feet seem to stop,
The hard ground meets,
The tiny, drops of puddles that line,
The wet and empty streets,
 
There is one light,
I gaze so incredulously at,
Afar, so afar, past an ocean of grass,
That encompasses a field,
Where I live my life,
Spend my time,
At night,
Where dreams are so closely hidden,
But just before their sound illuminates,
My poetic sleep,
 
The sky is hazy,
And I write this for no woman,
Or man,
Or beast that roams,
The wild sweeping Land,
But for the night,
This one and only night,
That seems endless as my vision begins to fade,
 
I write this for no woman,
I write this for no man,
Nor for any beast that roams,
This wild sweeping Land,
I write it for Birth,
I write for Girth,
I write it for the mind-sweeping,
All-encompassing, diamond-speckled,
Ground that with baby puddles,
Gently, oh so gently meets theses,
Crying ballet goddesses crying,
In their final flight,
And as unimportant as it may seem,
To me, at least in my vision,
My journey,
will be to discover,
Which one holds deeper symbology,
In their final flight,
As to which one is wrong,
And which one is right...

Liked or faved by...
Other works by Robert Thomas Halliwell...



Top