by David Pratt
Your bones tire an old soul’s tire.
Done hung around far too long,
Far too many lives. After millenia
One gets weary of the cycle.
Still something always pulls you back
Into the dance for another whirl,
A memory of the real, the touch of flesh,
The sound of music when the spirit’s not enough,
An embodiment for the energy,
A vision for the thought.
A lust for the empirical, if not an imperative
Like the Magnet yanks you back hard.
Puts you here. Says,
“Do it again.”
And you do.
But it’s never what you think.
The light switch that doesn’t work
Throws you off balance
Just like that missed step in the dark
Or the one you think is there.
No surety, no footing in this muck,
A cartoon character suddenly realized
He’s running on thin air,
Legs furiously working for purchase.
Still you surge forward. You don’t look down.
You go with where it takes you
Though you know you don’t belong here.