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| lyn lyfshin |  | 1. SOMETIMES IT'S LIKE the child dancing in the Warsaw ghetto in his body of rags there must have been music no one could hear dancing thru corpses, his face pale as the moon just to stay alive, begging please don't hurt me. Dancing to horror. No one could hear what he heard, the razor's edge, the body's language 2. WALTZ where you're someone else, the drawn to flame moth daze. The world goes away. This trance deeper than drugs. Don't imagine anyone could hold me. I'm flame, wings. a heartbeat could shatter. Something moves in under skin, something that could turn me into Isadora, oblivious to rain and snow. In the right arms, I'm wind, rain and fire, wild to be held tight as Isadora, to be wound around skin, your skin, your fingers a ride in the flame scarf wrapping her tight and tighter | |
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