the roaring

it roars in my ears
hollowed out by ungrateful sentiments
given rise by prolonged hibernation
through a muted winter

somewhere through mischievous cracks
summer is breaking down concrete walls
skipping over spring altogether
greedy in its ambitions to thwart
to consume until it has dominion
no more me-
only it

a serpent famished, starved
hungry for its next meal
slithering over organs
taking them hostage

coiling through blood
white cells crushed like feathers
beneath smouldering boulders

I am washed over in its image
powerless against its frightening ardor
shaking, I will carry out its desire

I sit here- a once benign spark
atop a tank of eager gasoline
waiting impatiently for ignition

Anyone got a light?

air to breathe

Alexander.Yakovlev

I met a man once.

When we got to talking he asked me what I did.

I told him I’m a dancer.

“Neat” he said, and then “What do you really do, though? What are you actually going to do with your life?”

If I can’t dance, then I might as well die right now, I said to him earnestly.

I don’t think he believed me, for he only laughed and turned away.

After he left, I began to notice my skin was turning cold, crackling, and threatening to fall apart….. it had been too long since I had moved. Even that short conversation with the unbelieving man was too grand a pause, too much time away from dancing.

So I ran as fast I could and leapt, flew through the air, wind catching hold of my hair… giving myself up to my life’s purpose. I felt the warmth return to my skin, my pores brimming with satisfaction, maintaining seamless balance. It was as though finally I had provided them with the air they needed to breathe.

I think I may have landed sometime after, I’m not sure.

In my heart I’m still flying through the air

Photo Credit: Alexander Yakolev

call me dancer

If I did not dance today,
does that mean I’m not a dancer?

Maybe tomorrow
I’ll wake up,
and dance

frantically
like they say not to

beautifully
everyone’s guilty pleasure

ugly
so that they’ll call me an artist

fluidly
to send the blood to my fingers and toes

heart beating
rigorously until my body cannot withstand
the draining
my energy donned in droves
from passion
and temper

so that no can can dispute
no one can deny
sacrifice my life to prove and

call myself dancer.

They’ll have to agree.