ballerinas of silk
dance between the footsteps
of the sullen past
as marble cranes
pick pleasant deeds
between the tip-toeing
of the future's feet

glimmers of bright lambent light
flitted over the vast lake
they were like ballerinas
imitating swans

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

Rilled
as
  a Rose,
      Petals Painted                                                          ­    
            with Radio-waves                                        Billowing     ­       
                               amongst                   Bouquet of          Ballerinas,
                                         ­    a   Blossoming                                    Trailing
                                                                ­                                          New
                   ­                                                          stars                  Born
                                     ­                                and           Blushing
                                                             Foaming
                                                         ­           at their
                                                           ­                Skirts
                                                                ­              like
      wrapped                                                   ­ the      
up              like home,             Surf of the Sea
in her                    Doesn't it feel
     spiraling                                                        ­  Scented with
                arms?                                       of her sleeves,          warm
                     Sewn into       cotton fibers                                       cosmic
                                       the                                                              ­    latte?
                                                      ­                              uni-                         Oh,
                                                                ­          entire      verse             before
                                                          ­               our                                   we
                                                                ­                was                  grew  
                     ­                                                                 ­  She  // taller

I'm not from here,
I was never from here.

It's time to return home.

Looking at the walls,
A group of ballerinas,
Dancing until the world ends.
Their feet in perfect form
And their open hands.
Why do they not dance for me?

The world is dancing,
The people are singing,
But I feel as though my life is ending.

Tonight,
Feeling a little poor,
I'm like an animal
With my head hanging out the windows.

It's time to return home.

This is my final song,
My final song,
Profound thoughts
And dancing...

...until the world ends.