we were two
in our own wombs
sitting dormant
like dressed mannequins
.
no smell of life
from this man and woman
no sound of breath
just the stillness of death
.
the throbbing of the restless soul
trapped in the hollow stage
insane with waiting for the call
to break out of this spot-lit cage
.
till the old man's worn out hands
beat the soft slow rhythm
and filtered flavoured strands of light
etching patterns on the frame
.
oh, we took life tottering steps
like dancers on swan-off legs
.
steep desire, pain and anger
on edges of sanity
licking sweet danger
.
dancing for the gods we slay
and the little demons we pray
the nests we break
the tears and joy we fake
.
the truth is the smell of sweat
of dance, swirling mist and dust
the truth is the old mans hands
the deafening silence of the band
.
