August 6, 2008
By Eric James, Summerfield, NC

Masked figures dance,
Upon wooden, waxed floors
With no music
But the tune of silence.
The deep crescendo of a whole note
Of your own heart’s race,
Thudding with adrenaline
And the nostalgic longing for
the return of long lost passion

A man passes
In a black tuxedo
And the devil, red mask
Of a wolf over his face,
His eyes, that too are wolves,
Filled with heat,
The heat of passion for mystery
And dance

He spins with a pink flamingo woman,
In a black dress.
Who is as graceful as he is crazed
And their intertwined bodies
Spur the classic fortissimo
Of your own eyes.
Blinking out tears that roll
Down the cardboard cutout,
Of a weeping woman
Who feels the dance’s passion
With the soft piano notes
That she sings with her feet,
That she needs no mask to really feel

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