From a revolving central axis
our dervish launches her devotions
in timid orbits, holding space,
as it's commonly known
in organized circles today.
Although, in all honesty,
at least from this sideline,
flailing appears more apt
and timely a description.
Her gestures punctuate the air
with a studied dart and weave,
yet the general trend
speaks of breakneck,
daredevil-may-care
abandon, not to mention
speed: A woman falling
is never pretty. Her face
a mask of fear and grief
as vertigo's inner echoes
feint-parry-thrust to foil
her loving certainties,
laying her humanity,
that tender pulsing fruit,
bare for all to see.
Only a trained eye would
recognize the single-minded
focus with which she keeps
her light tucked there, a quiet
radiance, at the epicentre
of her misery. To call it hope
does little justice to its true
purpose and indefatigability.
YOU ARE READING
Express, baggage and all...
PoetryObjects in the mirror are closer than they appear... Just when you think you've put something behind you for good, you look back and find it trails you like your very own comet's tail, lighting a path through the dark. Reading through these pages...
