War? Dance.

Writing hour,
cut down to half by a late meditation and
the making of two cups of tea,
one for me. Amazing street art dance springs to mind
with a shot of rhythm from the downstairs tv,
not what was on
but what was,
days have passed since but not the feeling,
the tension, fists curled,
body taking each step with him as I sat still,
moving more than could be seen.
I could only imagine the pain on my face,
could not come into contact with my reflection,
couldn’t miss a single burst of energy,
watched every twirl,
each meeting of bare ground and foot,
the naked concrete vulnerable to his tread,
indented with indelible emotion,
a pulse,
a throbbing that cracks the unbending,
the stoic,
the solid.
The only weapon that can.


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