A new cast invokes memories of the old,
The way that a spring fragrance echoes a past bloom.
I am afraid that I’m getting ahead of myself,
But I’ve always been a glutton for abuse.
The dance is strikingly similar but more fluid,
The way that a musician’s fingers dance over favored tune.
I fear that the ease comes with practice,
And pray that it's from something more meaningful.
The audience whispers musings and concerns,
The way a child doubts the mother’s monster search.
I ignore them and try to put them out of my mind,
But cringe as I feel their ideas fester.
The dancers go on oblivious to the world,
The way animals follow instinct in their hunt.
I am reminded of one thing, I never wrote a love poem,
Not even for her.