Somewhere deep in this black dance,
There must be some reasonable chance,
To sink anchor, break this old trance,
Sever this ancient bleak internal romance.

Two steps lead to two more and both sore,
Rotting pieces un-cut, how close to the core?
Looping volume on high, lying, personal folklore,
Deciding in shame, to be less, the master’s whore.

A turnaround off this dance floor, escape, I could make,
But so afraid that I might just unceremoniously break,
All things I don’t know, all these things I cannot fake,
I give light when needed but steal every bit I then take.

Legs have worn out from the effort to keep moving,
The explosions of the beats that are never improving,
Something here out in these dark lights I still find soothing,
Here I am again making a silent scene, business is booming.

Sending a request to the outside, the ones I did the abusing,
My heart lies heavy in this black tar dance, it never was amusing,
I should have been dancing with you a better dance, approving,
Rather than set your heart alight then smash it senselessly, accusing.
Thomas Spychalski 


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