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Jan 13
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement

I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe

I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody

mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming

My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer

It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine

- c
Translating music into movement and interpreting the artist’s pain
c
Written by
c  22/F/Chicago
(22/F/Chicago)   
263
   Mark Tilford
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