Dancing On Broken Toes
We reach with dreams of fickle laced lightness for that which lies beyond our corporeal grasp.
The ‘what ifs’ come with practice, spring-boarding from disillusion and delusion.
We hang ourselves on a whim, a promise, a commitment … a figment of our imagination.
We dance. Our toes break.
Time and space fold in on themselves to accommodate our self-formed fetal ball.
Denial is a cruel mistress, fermenting our brains in torment, egging us on to equal parts self-loathing and false security.
Toes skid across the floor and snap.
Our pirouette resolves into a swan dive, flailing arms still reaching for an esteemed illusion.
A wisp of smoke dances where once a flame burned.
Zeitgeist, the doppelganger, looks on with menace, perhaps glee, always ready with the safety net of reality and six feet of dust below.
And in the end … some are robbed from even knowing it was all bullshit.
How easily we dance on broken toes.