The Dance

The Dance
Marc Mosko, 1996

Intone for me those woeful sounds of teardrops falling on hallowed ground. Sing for me that saddest song of voices wailing in discordant throngs.
Specters dance to these beats, clapping time and shuffling feet. Deamons pass before my sight, Tourments, Pains, they taunt my eyes.
Riské moves and classic steps, alone or paired, they dance, they dance. Compounding loss with grief and pain, endless thoughts plague my mind.
Catapulted above the rest, Finality persists: never yielding to another partner. Unable to resolve those things unsaid, never to correct those deeds misdone.
Stealing birthdays, holidays, gifts, easier than the Grinch and dog. Death conducts an ensamble well rehearsed, keeping pace, never rushed.
They haunt the living with the dead, fill our brief time with eternal thoughts.

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All contents Copyright © 1996, Marc Mosko.



The Dance Marc Mosko, 1996
Intone for me those woeful sounds of teardrops falling on hallowed ground. Sing for me that saddest song of voices wailing in discordant throngs. Specters dance to these beats, clapping time and shuffling feet. Deamons pass before my sight, Tourments, Pains, they taunt my eyes. Riské moves and classic steps, alone or paired, they dance, they dance. Compounding loss with grief and pain, endless thoughts plague my mind.		Catapulted above the rest, Finality persists: never yielding to another partner. Unable to resolve those things unsaid, never to correct those deeds misdone. Stealing birthdays, holidays, gifts, easier than the Grinch and dog. Death conducts an ensamble well rehearsed, keeping pace, never rushed. They haunt the living with the dead, fill our brief time with eternal thoughts.
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