Fire Dance



The slice and shift of jagged lives
All falling on the ground
The chattering solemn hiss of knives
From little sheaths outbound
The bitter broken dreams of wives
Die, writhing, without sound
The trampled hopes of afterlives
Heaped up into a mound

And in an instant’s shattering light
Revealed for all to see
The stumbling march all through the night
From windward to the lee
The tangled twisted truth of right
Of what ‘had oughta be’
The breathless restless soul of might
Which lacks the will to flee

From wriggling whispering gunshot roofs
Same days, same nights, same soul
With dangling distant absent proofs
Race screaming from the goal
Banning mystic danced reproofs
That cannot play the role
While all about them, bulletproof,
Lightning strikes remake them whole.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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