THE UNWILLING DANCER

     THE UNWILLING DANCER                  TIM WILLIAMS    JULY 2015

I DANCE THE DANCE OF THE UNWILLING,
TO THE TUNE OF THE UNKNOWN PUPPETEER,
A MACABRE JIG, WOODEN AND WASTED
WITH A FADING PAINT COMPLEXTION

WORDS ARE SPOKEN ABRUPTLY IN THE DISTANCE
IN A LANGUAGE UNDERSTOOD ONLY BY THE CROWS,
MAY THE RED KITE FEAST ON THEIR FEATHERS
SPITTING OUT THEIR BLACK WORDS IN THEIR PHLEGM

TAUGHT ARE MY STRINGS, ARM'S LIFTED TO THE HEAVENS,
AS IF TO HAIL A NEW BEGINNING,
TIREDNESS CREEPS INTO MY JOINTS,
THEY FEEL LIKE THOSE OF AN OLD MAN BENT AND WIZENED

MY WORDS STICK TO MMY MOUTH UNHEARD
A TEAR BORN OF FRUSTRATION WINDS IT'S WAY
TO MY TREMBLING LIP, AND DRIPS, IT SEEMS
TO TAKE AN ETERNITY TO HIT THE WOODEN FLOOR

THE FIRE IN MY SOUL HAS BEEN EXTINGUISHED
JUST EMBERS TO FAR GONE TO BE RE-KINDLED REMAIN,
OH HOW MY HEART WOULD SING 
IF I COULD ONLY FEEL THE OCEAN LAPPING AT MY FEET ONCE MORE

THEN I WOULD DANCE UNAIDED BY STRINGS
FEELING THE HEAT OF THE SUMMER SUN
ON MY WRINKLED STUBBORN FACE
MY FEET MOVING UNASSISTED TO THE MUSIC
OF A YOUNGER MAN'S IMAGINATION