rantipole
“Perhaps the biggest tragedy of our lives is that freedom is possible, yet we can pass our years trapped in the same old patterns.”
It’s been raining for days
within the privacy of my
orange and rose boudoir.
Sweeping clouds from the
corridor, I create space for
tears, Prisms of Fear.
I just want to dance:
a woman bellows from the
seashells, definitive notes
marked by a tempo cut
into 60-second intervals.
What meter creates intimacy?
Your arm at my waist,
we retreat from the noise
of modern life. No rushing
pushing, or grasping.
Heretical horses gallop
staccato in the wet sands,
hearts pulsing as the wild.
Delayed gratification—
I watch the raindrops and
remember: tension must burst
for the atmosphere to form.
Photo source.
